Poem 18

In penury and in evangelical lodges, Californians sit terraced above the bio-shackles of a phantom proletarian museum. As in a portly child’s recurring sex dream, the mass of anti-subliminal actants churn about, rising over the lip of discipline and saturating the pages of the schizoid epistle; the puckered brew frames the duplicity of liberation as it exposes inflated hope to human sacrifice. We are asleep at the crimson symbol-press. We are snoozing in the juices of our aesthetic martyrs, Americans the beautiful and the rough hewn influence of models and their digits.