AXLE OF JUPITER

Here is the announcement: I am waving from Midnight’s throat to express
my amplitude of being within the moment, which is sprinting its
marathon & heaving chunks on the sidelines. The fog is slithering
like gauzy serpents on the leaves. Sparklers are setting off & all you can see
is a sphere of flashes in the countryside darkness. I am alive in an era:
coexisting with descendants from “old money” Episcopalians who masked
their self-spoken good deed as a ploy toward evangelicalism & apolitical
Studebaker workers who naturally participated in Hegelian dialectic with
immediate company. ‘Reassurance’ is bituminous in peoples’ mouths
because tomorrow is projector film burning, & before I burn out
because I have five capsules left & no follow-up appointment,
I’ll make you cum only on your sheets & leave once I realize who you’re not,
hopscotch piss-drunk on the train tracks when the cross lights flash on,
& maintain a tedious mode of contact like your favorite crash-car-dummy.
The hot punch of love is a rumor you break yourself to make true.
An iron-brand where it could leave you like stuck mud.