Tuesday, March 22, 2016

reality television



it was an age of douchebags
yet still the hopeful
looked expectantly to see
if grace lived in the heart of the universe
instead of realizing
that grace is a blind nictitating dance
of rabid mouthparts flinging foam statues
into the shifting razor-like loom of skeins
grace is the music from
rows of spectral and beautiful
lavender jade lutes to be
played by the erotized groin and belly legs
of a headless schitzocentipedal ourobouros
whose bent ambient anisotopy
is not so much the sparkle in our eyes
as the dull gleaming bluntness
of a polished lyrical and unceasing joining
of one thing to another
without worry of their joining
for grace is the fullest promiscuity
fully unveiling itself in the negative
and in the positive until those
differences are made more meaningful
and more useless less meaningful
and more useful
a douchebag is nothing but a builder
in a sea of builders
when building might also be thought of
as destroying
grace is the heavy weight that tells us
there is no difference in difference
that the blunt promiscuous joining
is a hell-like heaven
a heaven-like hell
and that reality's whole circumference
is some description of a weirdness
come out of the dark bleak mouth
of ourselves and then reswallowed
for all is reswallowed
poet or douchebag
queen, president or brother
squirrel, or pale rainbow dewdrop