Dali’s Droogy Politics
was such a random dude that
effervescent rhizomes bloomed
Pulpit economics shone sea to
fueled by the greedy decision tree
of fluoxetine, cocaine, and weed.
The idiots might be winning!,
said the jockey to the mare
as the donkey in sheep’s clothing
babbling and hiding emails.
Winning’s for the fools dead last!,
cried the team in the snorting.
A blonde eight ball grinning,
writing miserable dogmas.
(The huffing gas, in the chamber of Muslims,
choked on silently.)
He stood over America in great weather and lots of violence! Very dangerous!
Hoaxes, liars, and a businessmen.
Ugh, me too! But, fam, no fame!
Fan the flame. Give the internet what it wants.
Detach the social body from the mutual interest
and you’ve got an anxious, depleted, defeated middle class with no belt, holy shoes, and visions of the future.
They all came out of their homes at once —
the Behaviors. They are surreal
acid stones on an anthropomorphic
beach, washed out and hated for their moodiness.
Nearby, Abraham Lincoln met Freud in a dream,
naturally occurring. Beautiful, instant,
grams of stardust surrounded them, were tanned, coffee, and
no alcohol, but sterile. Lots of washed out, smooth, frictionless, oil-painted beauty.
Next: bicyclists changing tires on the fly,
heading to a distant City. Java? Euro? Marco Polo? They all have
rocks on their heads and maybe they’re listening to Bill Evans.
What these cities represented, mostly: eyes, memories, and thinness.
Eternal returns to the inner olympiad,
the alpha private channel, the poker games, the six-pack. The quiet place that no one ever knows.
And there too was wonder in capability: sailing, Pokemon, changing tooth-wheels and chain-wheels — sexual, two-wheel emancipation riding along Charlize Theron in Mad Max.
Honest Abe really was a mastodon.