I can’t recommend writing

letters to gods olden or
 
now—they’re all traitors

at some point, serfdom

                              *sending
us their garbled txts via rep,    via courtier  copywriter

                                                          via *courier

experiments in
 
                 I didn’t mean 

                 to say
     
architect  sophistry  supercomputer  skyrocket
 
          *autocorrect

          *autotext

in sufficiency

          *authority,                               in obstructions.
 
                                                             *instructions.

                                                             *obstructions?

Lab coats spook me with their pen-headed hedges,

their blanknesses.
We are held together by a line

of discs. Filled like a donut,

doctor said. Id est,

sacs of sweet & jam

waiting to burst.
ㅎㅎㅎ
I dislike being seen through.
Time calls Place, who pretends not to be there,

doesn’t pick up, dials Time

back  & leaves a joke message about being

trapped in elevators, batteries

dying—     static  something      static —

& every other
 
                        what?      I can’t here.

You.

I’ve left
 
                                           some billets-doux wrapped in paper.

            One like a rope

            from the animal’s throat.

                                          One like a fist

                                          from its heart.
The old butchers insist on truths, lest there be mis sed conceptions:

     “Throat”     “Heart”
Both fare but old-fashioned.

Frequently, they come “connected”—

the “heart” in the “throat,”    the “fist” “wrapped” with “rope.” 

The “heart” favored, so

more dear,

more        courtly

                  ghostly

                  *costly.
Like sweet little breads, our delicacies, too,
 
gradually disappear after turned out to grass. So let us
                  nod to one another
 
                  like “friends.”

(When lonely, I fill up

with souvenirs, trombones.

My fist can hold 10,000 balloons.)
It seems there is no rest.
I download & hide

                  in a “cloud.”
I split the giant.
What does a lamp do in the dark?

Because the black bulb does not look right to live in.
No, Narcissus!
 
Rise. In place of remembrance,

be “productive.” Divide. Fill, fill—

fill the contract.
Stuff the emperors with donkeys.

Slap little penguins in     the katy

                                               the great  the neat  the near  the best 

                                               the nasty  the jay
 
                                               the * * * * *
Punch in. Log in. Do not forget to save,

post. Transfer. Other things 
remain classified, too powerful to look in the face.



Emotion. Spring. Daffodils. Stillness. Dust.
(First appeared in Konundrum Engine Literary Review as part of their ongoing series in which two poets exchange work and create interpretations of each other's poems. This piece was written alongside work from poet Martha Silano.)