It was all blown up, everybody gluing
together the rubble, not looking,
so I invented a new word for universe,
broke into prison and live-streamed
a cooking show from death row.
Butterfly chops. I am so dumb today!
Even after the explosions, we’ve always been here,
hammering flat the crumpled maps
to our secret jobs where we don’t
have to use our gazillion-mile howl
to gather our friends, repressed outside-voice
oozing from the corners of mouths,
staining white shag with red screams.
Conservative blogger Andrew Breitbart
died today at 43 and I feel bad imaging Italy,
its clustered domes littering photos of Rome,
a thousand mongrel wing flaps punishing hallowed air
in scatter when the spirits shadowbox in the periphery,
when the artisan curses his lousy chisel
trying to gouge his aura into a wood carving of motion.