I caught my eyes in the gold-flecked mirror
And paused to trace the diameters.
What should have appeared nearer
Developed its own parameters.

I paused to trace the diameters,
And discovered the golden flakes
Developed their own parameters
And coalesced opaque.

Upon discovery, the golden flakes
Formed a cloud inside my iris
And coalesced opaque,
A golden plague or virus.

A cloud formed inside my iris
And obstructed the view of the sun.
A golden plague or virus
Traipsing like a legion.

Clouds obstructed my view of the sun
So night seemed to stretch beyond
Traipsing across the horizon like a legion
And elicited in me a muted response.

My life is a conflict,
for instance, I'm anti-
prefix and I print thou
sands of leaflets to end
waste and promote recy
cling.

Is nothing sacred? No
thing ventured, nothing gained.
Even the cows appre
ciate the milk of hu
man kindness. Nothing is
sacred. The snare drum in my
heart has lost its tautness, the
springs have become strings that
are pulled not by heartwarm
ing scenes but the slowly
chilled grip of calipers.

*****.

Twirling like the devil's baton
a cyclic cul de sac
'round the positronic menagerie,
speared from stem to stern, floor to ceiling,
arched bowed bent backs saddled ridden tools
adolescent ne'er-do-wells and prepubescent fools
all desiring to sit nowhere but by me,
by me, by me-

My friend of cosmic dawn, take my hand and
traipse like a runner in a blind alley.
Lead me to my quiet stead, walk and stamp about,
my cloven-hoofed associate, sarcastically devout,
and show me that everything in this whole world
is presented via legerdemain, deceitful cleverness,
but it cannot cure my lightheadedness, felt by me,
by me, by me...

She said it's "Brittany, not Britney,"
as we walked over the Mathematical Bridge.
I asked her if that was a reference,
but there's more than just a difference in nomenclature.

She said, "My name is Brittany Etheridge
but there is also a Britney Etheridge,
and she's a walking disaster."
I said "Hey, I never knew..."
as I looked into the river.

"Did you know about this bridge?" she asked me,
and I answered, "It's just a way between shores."
But there's always more to what is there, there's history.
"It was here before computers, before the wars,
before Britney Etheridge."

I could see my reflection in the water below,
warping my face with the current, and
it left me with nothing but a desire to know the history of all things,
but mainly Brittany Etheridge.

She told me, "Isaac Newton built this bridge
without any screws or bolts. Now that's engineering."
And I agreed with a nod and a smile.
"Britney Etheridge wouldn't care though."

She kept talking after that, but all the while I thought
about the bridge, and how there're screws here now.
She told me, "Isaac Newton built this bridge
without any screws or bolts."

A:
Claw at the satin ceiling. Being
buried alive
is a ***** detail
best left to jealous lovers.
B:
Insert your index finger
through the fabric of the lid
and tear.
C:
Taste the tepid soil and tell yourself
the sunrise waits for you.
You are the giant squid, meandering through
the velvet ovens of dirt.
D:
Each digit on your flailing fist
is a fleshy flower in concert
with your wrists. Protrude.
E:
Read your stone-etched name
aloud. Sound out each etched sound.
Each syllable.
Trace it with your fingers.
F:
Shield your brow from the brilliance
of irony as you begin to crawl back in.

If you would permit me, I'd like to close the blinds, for
in only twenty minutes the sun is due to rise.
It tends to taunt the people
lamenting your position,
so if you would permit me,
I'd like to close the blinds.

If you would permit me, I'd like to sit a spell, and
wait until your eyelids close, and whisper, "Do farewell."
The love: Your veins are guiding to your heart,
to insulate its rooms,
so if you would permit me,
I'd like to sit a spell.

If you would permit me, I'd like to calm your nerves, for
excitement does accelerate, at least I have observed.
So please, for you, and yes, for me too,
just rest and close your eyes.
So if you would permit me,
I'd like to calm your nerves.

If you would permit me, I'd like to bid you tidings, for
no longer in these hallowed halls will your body be residing.
What seems like ending might not be so bleak,
for this galaxy cannot hold you.
So if you would permit me,
I'd like to bid you tidings.

The mailbox that bears my name was filled with notes from God's secretary,
each notarized with an antioxidary,
regretting to inform me
| a meeting cannot be yet arranged,
{that} the schedule will just not allow |
And as my eyes palavered with each and every flowing word,
{The clerk had impeccable penmanship}
the sorrow hit me like a God ****** hammer,
falling flaming from the gloomy clouds,
splitting my skull without a sound,
and if I could accurately express exasperated stammering,
my letters in return would be that-

So to temporarily occupy my infinite time,
dine do I, on plates of leaves, as the guest of hounds from Hell,
And O! they do not bellow but whimper quietly.
They softly said as I was fed to second-guess my piety,
but whether they meant to be so dour it was difficult to tell.
So as I ate my mind escaped and I fell and fell and fell
(not unlike a hop/skip/jump straight into a well.)

The hounds with zeal! they laughed at me
as I tumbled into darkness.
O! how lonely falling is, it can only end in pain.
As I swirled into the pit I see my past is feigned.
The darkness then began to waste away as light unfurled,
and fast and sure my flailings ceased, and I landed on my porch.
The force my feet had bent the boards and my mailbox erupted.
The letters God had sent to me fluttered coyly in the breeze.

I remembered how the lamb I had eaten was most oily,
   and I vomited-
But all that came from my tired organs was the milk of human kindness.
I rose and stood la'statuesque,
frozen,
like a victim of a Gorgon-
My limbs then quit;
I acquiesced,
and fell again onto my porch.

I could hear the cackling that drifted from the matted muzzles of the hounds,
hiding in the shrubs nearby.
I tried to yell
but hounds from Hell
can only hear a lie;
I whispered, "Yes, I'm doing fine, I ask you, don't assist..."

The laughing stopped a'suddenly and silence took ahold.
I lied, I lied!
I lied as I were dead.

The hounds understood and turned to dust, vanished with the wind.
O! how lonely falling is, the landing ostracizes,
and there I sat, a porch pariah,
until the mailman returned with the sun,
bringing bills and notes from God,
and soon my mailbox will again be filled |

| And confound me like a divining rod in a boat
When everything points to true and right,
abandon do I all my hope |