IT Felt Like a Fly on the Nose of a Bullet

The imponderous, penny-pinching language
of the portables,
los bachelor machines: and their impolite,
feather-light femme fatales,

who in that circumbendibus, orphic sufferance
of the risorgimento, exclaim Logic’s Hell,
reaming out Ra’s blistering ripened crops of rain

for the deep sibylline that floats, just out
of reach in the [sic] tintamarre and tumult
that still leaves us, in a paladin’s suit
of armor, to wonder if an aircraft coasting

towards a cheap cloudbank of mostly blindness
might vanish with the single, quicksand snap
of a tribesman’s right thumb and middle finger.