Panomie

After Koestenbaum

Shedding the filth of adult urbanity,
you may have recognized them as necessary golem.

It is in true thought, in perfect form for the deranged,
that this is all hotel life. The transient stagecoach.
The backward doors and upside down Chinese in mirrors.

You would do this amazing thing with your hands.
Choke up on the buster of greening balls. It was made:
adamantium, human skin; oil degreaser concocted
by the wrinkle wizard wearing blue satin.

He was in his penthouse suite shining his shoes.
Too soon, you said! Grabbing your stickered bag
and letting go while spied upon by private eyes.

Snickering curses through the revolving portal.
You were the large gray whirlwind up front and in tune.

You were wondering in idealist conjecture.
Where there's will there's an answer. I could
have lost you like tennis balls flying by cameras.

But inside and then underneath your clay pockets
sat a recording device: vibraphone; instant finger
plucker response system. Your mind painted news.

It was you on the opposite veranda. All balsa.
This capture the flag game. This treaty of verdant sides
creeping along another king's kingdom garden path.
Where they hide the dead, where they hide your family,
is what sucks you up and makes the skin sticky.

You packed up bags and fled, thinking about robot
transfusion, neutrinos, and the red dots bouncing off
black holes during a mushroom trip your boyfriend had,
where the ceiling was molecular pancake mix frying up.

There is no blame to be spent when courtesy markets
are down: shareholders holding pens like pigged projects.
A giant glass dome made out of thousands of squares.
Rectangular thought provides intimacy and warm showers.