THE COMMA

I

When it comes to the final, the end of
The end of the end of times it is hard
To rhyme on such a pinned stockpile of rime
But where for to: I’ll begin on that Island
Of Man, that īeġland (manaháhtaan;
Manna-hata) of Many Ills, meaning
Where once the brave would ‘gather’ and ‘bow,’
Before the Dutch of East Ink filched and filled
The foliated Limestone and Quartzite Gneiss
For the ferris-wheel, third-eye illuminutz
Grounds where, in fact, this very own tale of the
More a Man Das the More a Man Wants
As (s)he points and peers, peers and points
Up upon the electric gas peddle of future’s present,
A demesne of Tesla’s coil about to boil
Through the foil of our Tic-toc present bit-
Coin, mind-kontrol, crypt-oh!-currents
Seeping down through the Houston, TX frack
(weep-womp) straight into sepia-tone’s past
Of its very own cut & paste tracks
A steppe of lame duck space and crooked time
For which some digital royal sub might
Just find pitchfork in place of the pacifier
Some hussy kerplunk-plunked for some vice
If not security up his-her ass: heehaw!—that
[s]he’ll require a case of scissors, thread, needles (hussif)
For that—the wicked witch monkey climbing out his-her mouth.

II

Moreover. This just announced. Stetson stirs
Begging for some white-class substance
Of Alaskan timbre if not spirit
To place him back in (hi-ho!) stirrups
After falling ten-thousand glass steps from
[the] sky. That (s)he’ll find their entire map
Flat as a flapjack beneath the still-life
Balls of Arturo Di Modica’s wild
Wolf-in-Disguise—meanwhile, ‘bugle’ dates back
For the the moniker of ‘a sort of buff-
alo, young bull or wild ox.’ Moreover,
His ears are beaming, her eyes are ringing
Out the m-83 woo of Battles’ “Futura”
As the fractal firecracker melo-
dy trills for Legion’s self-revolving mute-
d post-horn track.