. . .

Prefix, I spoke
to the goat from Zipolite today
who said the government
          has gone public
          with my private
          language, & if they keep all the mirrors,
          & if they are pointed toward each other,
          then enemy
          with its names and its looks
          is symptom
          is synecdoche
          of identity.
                     An age has ended,
                     & the last method
                     of delivery is dead,
he said & he swam back
to Blog to make an example.
Gone is the hope of understanding.
The imagination can no longer hold the story,
finally, bound only in integrity.
What I want to say to you
is what I want to say to the world.
I have made a market.
I have constructed it from nothing.
Magic I learned from back home.
The imagination happens at home,
but it isn’t home.
It was physically assembled in the sand.
It could just as easily been snow.

Wasn’t everyone owl eyed when I busted out Fun.
It was originally written on a banjo.
It was all based on steam & expediting
the misunderstanding of public property.
How quickly we ran out of nonfat milk
for the steam
so we used seawater
(which does have a few more antioxidants)
& that worked well too.
The most important component of magic
is its critics, & their oversight,
that & maybe actually escaping gravity,
& owning up to nothing
in a tiny way
by slowing things way down.

I could no longer clear the air by cursing.
The house needed a good cleaning.
I woke up a little late,
&, shaking the cockroaches
from my toilet brush
by slicing it through the air once,
made the day begin.


Love,
Suffix