There is a smudge on my glasses
inside the dreams of the flower nod
which provides the landscape I need
as I imagine a foil scar on my left cheek
to enhance my appeal with the court
in a rebirth of the cool that occurs
three hundred years too late.
A model lighthouse in the front yard
of a Cape Cod fifty miles from the ocean
does not make me smell salt air.
If you want to get all brass tacky about it
I don't really care.
I practice the high art of giggling
at a point far removed from the whine
of pool filters in the morning.
The touch of my penis feels good in my hand.
I am a semi-animated object
barely aware of my own motivations
unable to escape things that are black and yellow
and all that remains is a figment
to be pawed and prodded in imagination only
no less visceral than the now
littered with carcasses at regular intervals.
What the mockingbird told me
is good enough for me.
The prospectus is inscrutable.
A bird chirping once is the sound of eternity.
I am the faint cosmic giggle of an unproduced producer.