the prospectus is inscrutable

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.