I’m speaking at the sub-meta level
about the infra-inferential beyond: Bon jour.
Ni hao. Guten Tag. Shalom. I bungee around,
Gestalting out. I’m brain-waving to this short haul
video. I’m pilfering office supplies. On and off, I’m sounding
the depths of hoo-ha. I’m sniffing glue. I’m watching my calories
burn on the elliptical. Hello, I’m mixing cranberry vodka into my Slurpee
at a Chicagoland 7-Eleven. I’m body-surfing a poem. No,
I’m leaning over, closing a tab on a browser right now. I’m chewing
panini with hummus spread, tarragon, a lemon wedge, and a generous
crumble of feta. Why, I’m a pole-vaulting dwarf. I’m mostly cut-and-paste.
I’m a pile of paper slips in a Chinese room. I’m a daisy-chain
of inwrought paper clips. I’m sipping the gaze of a meter maid with cauliflower ears
(a meter man?), who looks as fluid as a two-way mirror or a sales rep. A spastic lull
withers—and, see, there’s nothing to solve. His coke-nose is gnashed;
his little beanie hat, as colorful as any genome splice. Aloha, monsieur.
What else? I’ve forgotten my Klingon.
I open my mouth. Light pours through the dark
jigsaw of organs: the wrists of small birds totter upright.
Their gentle tots sway. The gables wear a beard
of icicles, which Rachmaninov as they fall. Each punctum
dams a finger up its gushing self. ¡Olé!
Pink noise over narrow bandwidths,
and the last glimmer of daylight is like Lazarus,
that punk, waking up
as he misrecognizes heaven.