The electic eye opens:
Pillow posed there with hat on your head
you silly softy
put there in place of a friend who didn’t want his photo taken
you, said pillow, always bend for people and sigh
so helplessly
you, wild pillow, vomit your down raining a billion feathers
as teens fight
slinging you
wet pillow all drooled on
you were made by a machine
in Bangladesh
wet pillow in little pieces
at the riverbed
Ginsberian pillow barreling
through the universe like a glossy star of David
of course disappearing in
the universe’s asshole: the cosmic washing machine
Dadaist pillow made of many swirling dots:
cloud, smoke, fuzzy ghost, yet somehow distinct, certain, and sure
Ernest Garcia Marquez now eats the pillow as he did as a child
Allen Cabral de Melo Neto
stop trying to drop
the pillow (like acid)
tune out!
The electric eye closes
Cue the music
something like Dizzy Gillespie
like St. Louis Blues
like rain, trumpet, and saxophone:
prairie dogs kissing
red with a little bit of purple
statues flown in on helicopter
mad riffs
jazz is riffing, churning
but it hardly matters now that you’re here
listening while you rub your temples, the space under the eye sockets—sounds like Hollywood trumpets that signal character trouble:
another headache?
keep it quiet
so I don’t have to scream to be heard
shall we stroll or pace the earth or stay and wait for it to spin past us
until you answer, how can I talk with you?
Half asleep already, let us doze then
let the blobs of sleep pull you out to the
ocean milk of sleep
where trees dream, no dogs ever bark
and money is asleep
so the aparts—the separates, distincts, others, not here but over theres—mingle without any of that resentment, envy, and cowardice;
one with the name that means tiger in Spanish
with the curly hair and sloping forehead
like a Maya Queen and taco vendor
looks at you to see if you’re here or there, like her.
I close my eyes and watch the ocean milk churned by long lines of Khmers
milk dropped from the craters of the moon
when we earthlings worm-holed in
part of the churning
universe building
already we’re halfway into it
this book, I obsess I am nothing more than a comma
(a grammatical bridge)
who wants to be an Em dash
(a grammatical wormhole),
whether by momentum or inertia
open to the ideas and let the page stir
the philatelic museum will put this moment in a border
to preserve the creative
which is being extinguished in America
a mad run to the far reaches of
crashing cosmos of timpani symphony
quasars, quarks, and nebula
wormholes, blackholes, cedulla
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