107
I bend to my ends. Surplus rosaries
meltdown in a warehouse fire. I am
captured by satellite and interpreted by dandelions
as I enact distant moons in postproduction, take
the hit and sit, listen to the music of
my Self. I am a host of homeless riffs
in need of songs to marry into. I am my own
host, lost of all lives, and peckish as a parakeet.
I take the stand on The Dinosaur, look to
the sky and have no fear of our future, so
I stare my timeline in the eye and refuse the social
blindfold of the panopticon. You must see me bodily
when you fire.