And then I fell in love. With you. All the precepts clicking
into place. It didn’t matter Bowie’s “Rebel Rebel”
was the Muzak—it was simulation. The gallery
of Kroger products like Warhol rip-offs—
miniaturized and stacked for ease
of replication. A Tik Tok challenge with meat—
same additives as those dancing girls ingest.
Another toxicity that corrupts. Where does it come from—
this love of love for body? It intoxicates awhile—
the evolution of it—breasts and ass—then alligator
alligator cute kitten. Boy (no surprise) doing
stupid boy thing. I have to Cold War
bunker again with soft curves and Marilyn, that knockoff
housewife calling herself mother stepping in,
spatula in hand, red lips ablaze. Cribmate Godzilla
down but not out. He’s not burning Tokyo
to the ground these days but saving the world.
Seeking what is viral in us. Or what reels
(saving daughters). Our brains so seeded and washed
with what we have declared is Beauty,
or ingested as Beauty he is paralyzed—dear Fellow
Shopper—with how you consider the eggplant.
Graze a peach with a fingertip.
This poem one of those my love is strong numbers
he sings from distance because it is safer there—
purer—more about himself than anything else—
the simulation in his brain breaking down.
Three bags full. Winter air—which in another film—
would be dust—resurrecting Mothra dust—
just winter rain here. Blistering. Angling toward you.