A Death Knell

The brainchild of the brainchild
Is too small to deal with–

As with one of those trucker hats
We fit all sizes.

For J0313-1806 to have grown
To this point of reappear,

The black hole would have had to sprout
With a seed of atleast 10,000 solar masses.

What if Johnny Appleseed worked for NASA?
His father, Nathaniel Chapman, fought as minuteman

During the battle of Concord. Concord traces back
To ‘agreement, union’ of a direct collapse scenario?

Democrats and Republicans are shaking hands
Because their tin-heads and hands are cold.

Nonetheless, their merry-go-round is tilting, whirling
Out of control. Coney Island is, in all possible worlds,

Not an island, being filled with corporate carpetbagger trash.
No one has been let on the Parachute Jump in quite some time.

Built in light of 1939–for New York World’s Fair at Flushing Meadows,
Corona Park, riders would be lifted to the top and dropped.

After the bad acid trip of the 1960’s, the frame fell into disrepair.
A writer for The City Journal said it resembled ‘a mushroom.’

Perhaps, perhaps. Meanwhile, one should heed not to repeat
The mistake of Truman and stick around for the dynamite, i.e.

The psylocibin silhouette of the unicorn. As such will implode.
Gold had its day of filth, of purity near where it joined the Cher.

But the swamp is filling with stones deep as the Congo is wide.
88 feet above the Potomac, the U.S. Capitol provides a west-

ward view. Across Uncle Sam’s reflecting pool. Any tourist might
Capture their own writ-image by just snaping a candid shot

Of the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial,
Bearing in mind what, like boomerang, comes back

About. And so in the face of the Unknown Soldier,
It seems the powder keg of life has gone

Out for another beautiful butterfly gallop.
Surprised?– of course. Call me fully retarded.

Unlike Randolph Driblette, I did not dissolve
On some stage’s theater, in some Gulag’s bath cell.

That MIC wants to put me in their booth
Is treasonable. Yes, treasonable.

Just ask the founding fathers
With Walt Disney lying

In their crypt; from the Halls of Amenti
Thoth has awoke. The nip and tuck

Of Realism just got some exposure.
Project Blue Beam. Project Blue Book.

You are cowardly men with a new dispensation to each other.

That the 1-train links to the 2 and 3,
The A-train to the B and C

With an enrichment of jigs, beep-bop reels,
Boombox pipes out of which A Tribe

Called Quest blasts “Can I kick it?–” Well, yes.
Underground, beneath 4 am’s gridlock

Of shuttered shops, bodegas and pubs,
One might stream the constant rerun

Of shot after shot followed by a Waverly line
Of Coca~Cola for some drowned-out prof.

To get through another few cropped lines
From Beckett: I can’t go on. I shall go on.

You’re on Earth. There’s no cure for that.