The 24 hour broadcast quickly turned into a broadcast from the Twilight Zone, downvotes, strange ambiance all round. Odd tripping and still fifteen hours left to go. The early lines of this poem were partly inspired by someone asking why I enjoyed poetry more than any other medium. The most honest answer is that literature chose me for better or for worse. But here are some other sketches to consider.
Traversing Yesod
Imperial intimacy. Tapping the mana of
radio, waltzing in pentagons in step with
the saddest transmision imaginable.
Could I provide for the next
American Family? I haven't
recovered from the fact
I have porcelain inside my skin,
if I rupture I splinter from inside.
It makes me fear my fingers.
Souls without bodies are
feathers on snow, ancestral
freedom: a limb sacrificed
in this plateau is a hydra
upon the next cornucopia. Hark:
the stirring of UFO ink lakes
muddying the deserts of this nation.
Where else is there silver dollar liberty
and red blooded conspiracy?
Jim Sullivan, Christ on a UFO
smoko into eternity, without a trace
the bottle's barely a blip in the grand scheme.
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