HOW COME I'M NOT
STILL FAMOUS?
Like in 1983. Yeah, that was
me, slamming through the
fastidious like a knuckle-cake
GT; that was a car they made
by Pontiac which was horsepowered
at 483 but only on the kind of
clock they used to use in Detroit
where they believed it to be the
center of this man-made universe
of catalytic frieze and manic
energy. Grandmas with new
waffle-irons and meager
Mad Men selling lines of
entropy to dopamine mothers
of new-metal music and their
greased synergies. Lube up
the hole-pipe, drag forth the
catamaran, being out the leis
and the leiders, for something's
going wrong. Again. And I leave
the rest to you - Friar Tuck, or
Madigan, or MacMillan and Wife
or Frank Cannon too; the revel
is over, we live in a zoo.
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