Last Rant Before I’m Denied Entry Into My Big Toe

The napalms are sprouting palm trees.

The beheadings are spitting roses.

The vertical, steel planks open deserts.

But I am the forgotten being;
forgotten, the thin lips sealed against the gathering asbestos;
forgotten, the computer chip in my molar, the hair-long sperm slivering its tail beneath the photo on my passport, and my plasma as valuable as cheeseburger;
forgotten, for sipping sin, but no gold, for desiring the bride’s tears, but no minotaur;
forgotten, with a suitcase of dirt and tooth-brush;
forgotten for believing in a marble column;
forgotten, but dreaming slow descent into a dome of blue, vapor-trails weaving their psalms praising potable soda-pop, and cellphones for espionaged teeth;
forgotten, like the dimwit seated on the curb outside a charred orphanage and slurping rattlesnacks from a paper bag.

My sleep has been the cinder-block hut,
now a tetanus nest of rebar;
my good morning,
bells clanging to ears looped along a jailer’s key-ring;
my bride,
a red dress snapping in the wind & snagged on the claws of an acacia tree;
my morning commute to work, some minaret belching carbon or
assembly line inserted inside the burro spray-painted with zebra stripes;
my beer & repast of salt,
shavings of cardboard;
my daughter,
a plastic tiara, a soiled pink dress, a roller-skate, wheels still spinning in a landfill;
my ecstasy,
a stray mutt mounting a poodle in an alley with malarial puddles;
my absolution,
water’s squirt, squeegee, and rag I use to cleanse your windshield.

So.

Is this the decline and fall?
Is this the partition carved from unused antidepressants where children kick a soccer ball?
Is this a corner where I tremble while coyotes and possums repossess the brittle chassis of my biography?
Is this the kind cultural anthropologist who will listen to my astrology of implosions?
Is this the eviction from the carousel inside a suburban mall?
Is this the thread thru the labyrinth into a kitchen where I assemble kale & raw tuna?

No, no.

The palm-trees are sprouting napalm.

The roses are blooming beheadings.

The deserts are slapping new paint on a wall.

This is the charnel house primeval;
this is the loving-kindness medieval;
this is the suit stuffed with processed meat, cow-lungs, pig-hearts, and
rhetoric burping judges who pledge allegiance to the crow.

This is the crumpling teeth who wish to intone spirituals but lack courage.
This, the fork in one fist, and snake in the other.
This, the promise for homeland, as long as it’s under water.
This, the story of smolder,
a fire without flames.

This: a shrimp cocktail in a steakhouse for the wealthy.