post development, predestined infatuation,
maybe a raw incarnation, an adolescent descendant
of that one guy I plan to be.
Life on a river, well, the roads we swim back across,
are waving, exhaling, this tree spoken augment
of times that used to be,
every ring to marry, and measure annually,
by levity, thinning out the hardships
like some far away black hole
ignored in the hospitable crowd of stars.
And all the spidery tendrils, of our palm fortunes
reflected on the bottoms of this DVD
maybe posted, the screen play's written
for all to read, but it's still an actor who gets to live it.
Then perhaps there is no better cajolery to receive,
than to know that I alone can be myself, that I,
alone, can rise or fall among the other icy shells;
so perhaps I am a snowflake,
whimsically played and cast by the wind
who would have me elsewhere be some
awesome display of sky or static discharge.
The Model 17, diagnosed by a stroke
of pseudo(cidal)science, gravitationally attracted