vii. ecstasy in the boardroom
So many loopholes, so little time.
The numbers begin to take meaning.
Bothered by the facts, caffeine-free headaches, the arctic sugarcube:
Good morning. It’s 10:30 in the United States.
But I could be anywhere
more or less unstable on those
tectonic plates of intercontinental time—
neurons limp as boiled sage,
the sphere diluted to experience of optics,
quondam possibilities resurgent again
scented of chicken-fried woodsmoke,
cones, tail lights lost
the summer evenings
original elements grow appetites,
meet, plead, and wait.
Having heaven now,
I must make peace with hell
and cancelled sitcoms.
You future kids,
don’t hate me because I’m serious.
I tried to be an organ I’m a cell
devoted to its process.
I don't dream much anymore,
but when I dream
we’re Easter egg hunting on Mount Vesuvius.