Tuesday, May 28, 2013

My Cereal and the fortune teller

my cereal speaks in
linear bursts of thought on
rims of Styrofoam bowls
sparks interest from your
falling stars--from you falling stars--

from your
helpless knives making
ladies on Jupiter's final moon
along the Milky Way dance
along they dance--my mind takes
me there in time--I don't operate on the
militarized march,
the doctors got there first
and gone was my frontal lobe
through the eye socket with
an ice pick to the lazy cell
so I wobble slowly on cellophane streets

calling on the assembly line,
because, hell,
who knows better than
the plastic manufacture
how the pesticides made it on--
how the ingredients list was cheated
how much time
there's left, but the
timeless--? Who knows

Who's got it all figured out
in the fallout shells
in south american greenlands
labeled entropy, iceland, glue
on the dotted maps
with the incorrect measurements
and the lettered ocean pollution
that never stays the same,

why do we care for the lost little babes
when the mirror's all fucked up,
cracked barcodes and it
used to be 99 cents--huh?

My cereal hasn't got that answer
yet on it's TI-88
but it plugs away, it jetisons the load
it ignites the crematory pyre
It drowns itself in milk
for my benefit.

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