butterfly effect

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?".