
Groundbreaking Artists

Diagnostic rock stars
light the pink sickness
on my forehead
with the squeal of a spirochete.
I am sick.
The antibiotics climbed
the mountain
and blew away like ashes
at the top.
Who will I turn to
when the music stops,
perched on one screaming
foot in my box?
The seats in the crowd
are filled with the
whisperers.
On stage, the fully
realized monsters of
scientific sound.
Actualized mindfucks
who are going somewhere
because the conveyor
belt from the stage
runs only for them.
They see through me.
The extra vision in
my head a hammock
supporting the exhaustion
of my pine cone.
I have thoughts of lances,
of silver mercury
waiting for a cog rail
that sleeps.
I will take the mercury,
apply it to my forehead
like Ash Wednesday.
My Easter is on tour
with the band.