I’m turning in all my pictures,
home movies,
mayday scriptures,
for the earth to turn away 
from accords now nothing more than softened bursting blisters,

you never felt as bad as the days you missed her,
so you collected beanie babies to fill the void

… and married her sister.

and so it goes, another savannah fire,
the unnamed african government cut the budget

and the prime minister is arsenic retired.

let the circadian rhythms like nocturnal trees grow frosty follicles
pissed off and throw flaming pine cone bombs at you,
dew drop monacles upon the hair, held up to the sun’s ultraviolet like a pilot light

eventually it wallows through the thick wisps
when the wind kicks just a little bit,
much like the radio station in your town.

one nation ready to get down,
under the basement
floundering through the foggy gray days of adolescents,
audio gravy
bleats paisley outta’ radio disney.
plays the commercials like chinese water torture turbulent vertigo
until it’s in me.

and I offer my parents no apology
for the tv is the passage that I passed through
like gastronomy,
so why wouldn’t I back the privatization of social security?
the ads say that they, “put the power in our own hands”
and that, “freedom at the tip of a gun barrel don’t come free in no land.”
I guess that’s what they get
when they have a baby and let the media raise me.

Public Relations never stutter,
never teeter on lazy.
my mannerisms switch from suburban ebonic
to drunk on gin and tonic with Grandma Gopnik.

marketing groups
harbor my childish head-bop mannerisms
to harvest the ebb and flow of tween fashion rhythms

us underlings of Victoria’s Secret
and denizens of DKNY denim,
correcting and commenting on clothing ads
… underage calves follow the purchasing power of mom.

it’s no wonder they call ‘em brands.

amalgamated passenger pigeons ride the breeze
while their primordial memories of birth glide the magnetic fields of earth.