Paranoia Is Perfect Awareness
See tea bags in the trash, hear a tempest in the teapot;
blink spots behind the retinas while driving a car.
Find madness in the marmalade as the jam jar waits in silence;
shake the convex bowl of spoon, watch the drips fall on the floor.
Feel the thrum of steel and engines and a sonic boom of rap;
taste the scent of liquid creosote that trickles down the pole.
Seek peapods in the wings of birds and cabbages and kings;
hide the book that's so destructive it opens just at night.
The linoleum is crumbling and the sweater comes unraveled;
page 92 is dog-eared and the battery corrodes.
Sticky cobwebs spin on peaches in the can upon the sill;
secret diamonds tap out signals in the alley down the street.
The tape loop in your head.
The film before your eyes.
Teeny tiny bites of the world through which you move.
Electromagnetic Frequency
You taste like brass in the mouth
Bite down on a house key, pen cartridge.
Back teeth fill
with the cold needle or the dentist's drill.
Sniff soft electricity hours before a storm:
poached eggs and burnt toast
hang in the air, then dissolve,
then hang again.
You sound like everything and nothing
kettledrum, peeper frog, turning page, sneeze.
Girls chatter, men mumble, women smooth
over waves that never crash.
Your modulated curves make
a languid letter U, letter N,
which oscillate from Orwell's bushy head
to the eight ball mike, to over and to out.
And Uncle Tesla cradled you as you flashed
within the interstices of his fingers.
He dreams of robots not yet called robots.
He whispers poetry into any open ear.
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