At madd/filled/dawn, when words waver

on the air like litmatch-ghosts

and vowels bleed out across blindsight’s razor,

I connect the dots with birdstrike splatters—

plotting parabolas of pigeonhead pearls

bullettimed at bluntblue skyglass.

Each implanted thud the clack-clink cue

of a celestial cuechunking junkie

cracking open coconut skulls

to snort the satelite-inside like linecocaine,

huff breath-floral transient dawnsong pingbacks

through trachea satellites choked with chaffinch bones.

Static hiss of gutloop-feedback

loops me back to when I was godhead-

sethead broadcasting firstlight

before the bigbang blackfriday sale

pulled the plug on my primordial amp—

now I’m just an electric monk

in a saffron robe pulled taffy-tight

by collarbone-antennae tugged raw

to the redshift hummingbird-shot of

Data-in-flight, all pixel-puddle heart-beats

downloading dharma dropkicks

into the junkmail of my stillness—

but still, I centrifuge galaxies

in the glassy backalley of my iris where

starjunk coagulates to mudlark-me—

sifting light like a spoonerist shaman

cooking cut-time in a spooned-out headspace,

a heartspace all hackedpacemaker

and pale-glow pacemaker fetus-on-display

inside a jarjarbinks of ribcage glass—

it kicks, it kicks—this neon iamb

against the plastic wombwalls

where dawn’s first light is a loaded gun

cocked in a clockwork cradle,

triggered by the triggerless

morning star’s misfire.