An American Mystagogue

Crackpot Illumination




You see the squiggles on the side?
Dancing with leaden ballerinas feet over the tarmac
the concrete, the chipped brick
split here and there
you see the signs, kid?
On faded bits of moldy paper flecking forest floors
In plastic shreds the size of your pinky nail
In rusty pylons stretching over treetops
A mouse made home out of strips of newspaper
Wood pulp pressed, pushing, pulling through markets
And covered in glyphs etched by machine hands
Programmed through human souls
Imprints, man. That’s what we’re talking about
Impressions, dents, you’ve seen ’em
On the bumper of that beemer mobile
Rolling around one day, pristine and new built
Like you, like you and me. Factory specs, man.
The breeze is nice on your scruffy cheeks
The sun is hanging like a golden coin, radiation
BOOM. Fender bender. We’re all fender benders.
Your mom, your dog, and me.
Four-wheeled catalysts, peg-legged or aerial
Cosmic knives stabbed deep into our skull
Carving, sculpting and shaping
You seen the signs, man?
Like those music boxes, rolls of metal pins stuck up
Clockwork gears putting things in motion
Think the strings know whats coming?
Do the pins conspire?
But the box still sings.
Its like that.

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