Sam
drove his white van
through
the obsidian honeycomb semiconductor
better
known as The Cliff of Life.
Stop deconstructing! Now is a
time to build! You damn shoegazers!
When
Sam crashed into a glass sinkhole
his
hippo was left standing on its nose.
My
father wondered What in the samhill?
(Newspapers)!
How
many phone numbers on the bathroom stalls
did
it take me to realize they always summed the same
no
matter how I rearranged them.
Everyone
was “closed for the virus”
or
pontificating in a Lamborghini
that
men reelect the government is freaking out.
Good.
An ahm four that. [spit].
But
now the crashed hippo means more than that jazz.
I
tried all night to find someone
as
I stared from my loft at six different skylines
(Sydney
Singapore Shanghai Barcelona San Francisco Dubai)
The
black market had options.
Many
advocated zoos.
The only guy open was named Ramesh
.His Moneyball said Mumbai.
I
called Ramesh
(Hello moon like a tropical fish).
and
surfed the night on a banana.
Ramesh
was inexperienced
but
known for success with antelopes
so
why the hell not?
Matters
of the everpresent procreative desire
demanded
someone rugged
determined
confident blue-skinned and silent.
Sam
died of guilt in a romantic spotlight on the quad.
There
were signs of the sky growing in his body.
Prospects
for souls were bright as the sun
the
president’s bronzer
made
it seem like he worshipped by imitating.
Ramesh
freed the hippo that night.
Sam
gave up too early.
We
are near the end of our terrible experiment.
