Clear Channel

carol ann 
is stuck behind the glass,
a fish of gold, guppy, 
filming us for no one.

on the edge 
of a thought, froze
motionless, poem
to fixation, to thought,
the unthought, 

regent dreamings of 
a caged sprite.
our lady of unwritten
queen-deaths, 

dead airspace,
the space between  
the words, aether,
specs in the fridge,
4'33, 8.48, projected

mind-demise, hologram
of the public sphere,
of the market place, 
flogging a dead horse-
arrested.

exposed flesh on the green- 
littered sun-littered garden under
the giant tv. it is black & white
with the same surface areas,
prone to the same cancers, multi
way. just one day of shining sky

opening treasure chests, these pastry 
legs. a boy runs between fag-ends
toward a shady dog, tongue like
a spoon. the blossom is out yet we
still won't believe in it. snow will then 
tumble from the sun into our cocktails,

and boat drinks with cherries. gale
force winds will snatch the bangers
from the hopeful coals. sod's lawyers
in superstition, it is may but it may not
last. in a few months winter will return
with eggnog and the whole circus of

cold ceremonies. we strip hard here 
on the rancid sward with the rest of the 
demographics, pinking, darkening, 
slushies from the sickly shop that sells
dummies, canes and laces, the sun
that batters our eyes, these hunted caves.