the butterfly effect as 2-2 pitch
that ends Ryan Howard\'s whole
career; silence rupturing the way
an Achilles tendon does: Depeche
Mode, after all, did not admonish
us that we \"enjoy the dialogue\".
the day envelopes you, like
a letter that will be returned
to sender. invisible ink that can
be read only at midnight, in a room
without any dirty laundry;
the mind, on a constant wash
cycle, never coming clean.
every gesture, like the \"Clinton
thumb\", made to be empty;
the body convulsing the way
an obituary is written; orgasms,
apparently, have become
these literal death sentences.
you dreamed that Billy Joel
rhapsodized about the CCP
burning down Disneyland;
somewhere, a soft genocide.
brushing your teeth, you spit
out, \"Deaths have benefits\".
because of alphabetical order,
the future was always sterile;
although, once, one turned and
inebriated of someone\'s eyes.
assembly-line butterflies
swoosh, as if a certain logo;
posthumously, MJ became
\"a slave to the rhythm\".
guts that are auto-tuned.
tomorrow, today again;
a thought flitters across
your mind like lightning;
an interrobang giving way
to the endless minutiae.
\"what\'s the most you ever lost on a coin toss?\".