Here I am, quadged again.
Searching for tiny things
In tiny worlds –
An island in a sea of carpet
Concealment.
Treasure potentiality,
Pounded by waves of impediment.

The hunt is on.

Bakers recipe
Makes a mess of me.
Sara Lee or Betty Crocker
Someone, sometime, really got to
Torch a menu
For me
To be:
Quadged again.

Psycho Bitch has got an itch
And Moon intuitively knows
Just where to find it –
Take and hide it…
For a while.
But the Dragon smiles:
Being caught is for naught
When his cage
Is measured at
100cc’s by 28 gauge.

Here I am, quadged again.
Hearing is supersonic,
Running vision – loitering sound,
Watery voice comes out
Choked and raspy –
Gasping for
More psycho-neurotic
Therapists
Insist
It’s a habit:
Why, he’s got to have it.

The Director has directed the Orchestra
To orchestrate the Producing Agent
To produce an opus epic:

Light.
Cameras… (hit the mark as fetal, exit primal: growth adrenal)
Actions!

               High

               Low

               FUCK NO

               Honolulu PoPo

               Got nowhere to get away

               F-B-I-C-I-A-D-E-A:DOA

Here I am, quadged again.
Suddenly flying a massive plane
From a microscopic cockpit –
Through a fog of sensually seduced substantiality.
No training.
Simply praying
That Ground Control
Will reload,
But he’s alone in the bathroom again.

The Controller materializes
From his own impenetrable shadow.
Deviate gait is bait
For a feeding frenzy:
Preaching that doomsday events
Are the relics of cosmic tweeking.

The Preacher in his pulpit,
Commands his senseless puppet
Parishioners.
And the glorious rhetoric
Of a Derelict,
Leaves the multitude grasping – gasping
For more of his mesmeric
And soporific
Philosophy –
A Prophet who gets his gospel
From an Angel, full of danger,
Whose halo is clipped to a pager.

Here I am, quadged again.
Unseen people heard
Walking and whispering.
Unheard people seen
Stalking and staring.
What funny, fatal, probing people.