Imitation Synonym

Hurling endearments from the disturbance colonnade of broken stride/
at the very least this structure’s sound…Seemingly; A word an EX warily used in context/ women’s intuition I suppose/Another way to examine me up and down/to drive herself paranoid, seemingly.
I think of her sometimes when I’m laying in bed with insomnia, touching myself in the dark, in all the clean places, removing her good parts in my head, picking at the bad ones as a blackbird would the bones of a dead rat in a bad crop season. I think of Autumn, not the name per se, the season, not the woman’s name, like you’re listening, the time of year that follows summer, not the girl name Summer…Summer…
I think of her in my hometown along the slow river’s sandy beach, the lazy warm sun, far off distant voices oscillating in their gaiety of family life. Barbeque smoke teasing our taste buds, occasionally stinging our eyes just enough to accentuate their true colors, giggling and cooing, exploring each others bodies with rubs and tickles, scratches, on the beach blanket, trying to think of words that rhyme with orange.
In my remembrance, Summer’s name is Spring, a pet name for something I’ve yet to conquer. She loved reality TV shows before there were any. She didn’t make much sense in her fictional world that I made up, sitting at my outdoor table of the café as she walked by, but she showed promise and the sex was great for a season with a made-up woman’s name.

Regimen Poacher

Forbid restitution: Note: Side note: Fine Print:
In other words: And lied.
A promissory of provisional insurance to reassure lender was by any means necessary/ Shredded.//High hopes, garner grant, wished stock, undermine resolution. Forgo expectation mute. Record over information. Trade stock. Erase hard drive. Low buy sell high; simpleton economics for the new suit.
The devil chums, Waits…
The signal bursts/Schools flock to low-balled poisoned credit scheme, dimwitted negative option opportunists, and how?
The dead American dreams. They’re not even a real word. Foreclosure, ripped from all definition institutions and replaced with Fox News and a FEMA X.

To:
Has and eats cake/Our forefathers rolling upwards in their graves/Hand and fist/ tooth and nail/ bought insurance/FEAR/The shell game/pyramid scheme/ and the new Tea Party of taxation without representation bolstering 50’s values/Our veteran slaved suburbs full of manicured promise and restitution for all things lost, damaged or injured/ By any means necessary/ The lawyer dictated scribbled Helvetica of computer programmed hell-bent consumption of credit equity and the ebb of national debt from which to sue for the complete rights of the precise center of the universe and the legal rights to the phrase- “You’re Fired”.
God Bless America.

Finalize Landline

Squash nondescript empiricism| You ha-had no friends| noteworthy, anyway.
White trash shuffled by the gossip wind in catastrophic loops of themselves/ coined archetypes of temporary intelligence| The fragile narcissists, feeling, cracking and mixing, talking events any good American might take the wrong way.
Why are you listened?
(cocking my…)
Exactly why did you come here?
(You get the picture.)
This fleet is seizing, susceptible to argument at any angle overtaken by tradition:
PAUSE and RECORD are always two different things, and rarely are they used at their most opportunistic points of launch…Electronic gossip, that’s all, from nigger trash…Shuffled by prerecorded/memorized answers: The barking dog, the smug laugh under the bad breath of the learned reality. I hope you get your fucking way. I pray you let me die unnoticed in my isolation tank.

Retold Oblique-Phenol

We gnawed through our hobbles to find, when we ran freely, a desert compounded by ghosts/ the eyes of which burned out in each one as if an old photograph had mistaken its place in our reel. The flicker of light from the unconscious projection booths compelled, most likely paid off to spread these ambiguous lies, crackled in waves of far off thunder/ these, we were told somehow, were dead memories/ sifting through themselves to be found again//Picture an ocean as far as your mind can stretch seen through the eyes of a child, any age, it doesn’t really matter, separation is the goal//Picture absolute consciousness grinning with pure evil, telling you how loved you are//Picture the end of time. In each scenario there is only you to hold yourself back/ You are the child. You are the consciousness. You are the end of time.//Picture conjoined twins separated at birth/Picture whatever it is you are picturing right now…[Narrator Pause] …your accruement has begun: The image is law as we misstep my or your misgivings, no one understands like you do; the image is retraced through words greater than any spoken vocabulary/ of course, nobody understands. Eight is not a number, it is three, or four or any rhyming scheme concocted by whim, and so on/ depending on number of guesses each piece of static conceives to be without dimension/ your rationale is survival.//You think about topography, but there is none, fiction no longer exists/ distant voices seem caught up in inward thought train trained to fuse confusion in argumentative similarities beyond any listeners comprehension/ Are you the only one here alive, and if so, what comes before two?
You, child, remember who you are? What you were? How you got here? A spindrift wind gilded in orgasm manufactured ohms/ A pretty phrase or word spoken by the most beautiful image in perfect harmony with your voice as thought, noise, all noise, beautiful, tragic, and unspoken/full of life, all life, everything alive and meaningful, unquestioned in infinite silhouette and harmonium homage to stardust reverie!