Deplete the ascent, carving up your arms,
Returning flirty glances with the windows.
A film will attend this so don’t bother,
Efforts dismay affections, and that’s how
It was at the end of a dinner party, we’d
Release a few bad opinions and think we’re
Saved. At least, that’s how I would choose
To remember it, and if a batch of Gods fell
Out of the sky to correct me, then so be it.
I suppose one could do worse than have our
Police feign to assemble in the plaza to patch
Things up in time for the fairest election.
The outliers inside me continue to drown,
Even try desperately to raise their hands
As if trying to vote for an unspecific good.
The only defense I use is my dedication.
I am and I am not and there’s no difference.
However, the other hands are crossing fingers.
Welcome to my anachronism. Dirty, filthy,
Stinking wretch that I am, I am still on time.
That was a joke aimed to please and discomfit.
My design was supposed to make life easier,
But there’s no evidence the host will seat me
In the ballroom filled with investors which
Is totally fine with me, yet not altogether
Unprecedented, seeing as we would just give
The slip to things like this in the old days.
Isn’t there a word for all of this anyway?
The anointed no longer wish to be anointed.
I drove through the night and parked out back.
Walking through the warehouse with a wood
Case full of trains and buses, I go to my bench,
Turn on a light, and pull out the best engine
To disappear from the full-scale world down
Through anonymous tunnels, past trees
And people all meticulously assembled.
With my headlamp tipped to the world, I am
The man in the moon, relentlessly in love.