Monday, December 8, 2008

Glossolalia Supernova

Glossolalia Supernova

This whole thing is all cornflakes and all the time with the supper, the absurdity, the ringing in your ears. Conking out in the middle of an assembly, who do you think you are? Woodgrain? A desperado? Multiplication tables? The three holes and the one mile for your tablespoon to roam with the Formica blonds with their fake hellos. I hope I'm not a demon --

What do you say about a black lightning bug? A Swiss army waddle? It comes in jingles like a "Rome," like Fed Ex'd. High side is to the dunes, in turn to the waves. Remember the raccoons turned to rainbows? Gummy, Florence tasted like his name. Get to tomorrow, to the bargain salt water taffy bin or the gun range? You'll be squeamish if we ever end up in court, acrylic.

Don't force me to the stereo. Turn up the fence's juice. They're not pets, nothing is. Lightning is killed by hands of thunder and breakfast won't make itself. I don't do "margarine" anymore, though I do like me some backwards guitar.

All taxed and I need real butter. Some figaro!! shit. Land O' Lakes, maybe. Or something to approximate what decathletes inject. From the hills. Terry Gross on fire. It's calling, again. They're both calling both exhuming Froot Loops and dogging in parking lots in front of a Subway, in front of a Foot Locker. The ghost of a child star raging on Britney's Swarovski plated mic. Stage fright.

Keep you honest. Don't bump me. Transferring data. New offramps leading to a thousand ice cream men and putt putt. Take it to the mirror store, something's fishy. Iraq desert on I-5 corridor -- lifting "my trombone to the searing twilight." "An athletic contest usually limited to men" involving Houghton Mifflin and the American Heritage Dictionary, all rights reserved.

Some pilates, an arsonist, and 14,000 instructors all teaching awareness of the jugular. Promoting the hibernation of the lymph system and categorically denying reindeer parity and a free audio pronunciation. Kellogg's Frosted nightwalkers and polaroids of your new bangs. That asshole in the mall is who I ought to become. A sturdty Gap manager, a race horce enthusiast. Bilingual, like the tag on your t-shirt. "Para limpiar."

No, too sudsy, too Beyonce. More about Europe, less about the 12 notes. More about shoplifting shopgirls and less about cockrings. Just a dusting of gel and do you know what -- she has fake tits. Mylar balloons filled with Snack Pack pudding. Oh please, she's so 503c.

I'm talking about solid white albacore from just off the coast and a hoodie *with* drawstrings, and baroque piano to protest uranium mines. Farewell to you, oh Mississippi Guitar Quartet, you were so red, blue, mauve, and static. Floral print Bud Selig pumping diesel. Fumes. Fractals, foul balls --

How did these get here?! Save the interrobang you pilates, you second-hand yoga. Do that doy-yoing thing again with your tongue.

2 comments:

Mike Young said...

nice work

i'd bone it

Lacey Hunter said...

I want to eat this poem Bryan.

Well done!