Wednesday, 7 November 2012

After Pressing All the Buttons the Boy Escapes the Elevator

We stop on every floor in cosmopolitan giggling
then pass through a card-operated gate,
a guard counting our beeps.
The wealth of data brings us closer
to rolling our own dice
awash in radiation.
Things we mention only in footnotes
are manacled to our ankles.
The lawyer says it's okay, raises the ante
to another level, land given away
after a meltdown in the highlands.

When we press each others' buttons
a viral version of ourselves ejects
in the tickling and marks time
like dogs parked center on sidewalk slabs
marching into infinity, their infinity.
Sure it's glorious to have 15 minutes
of gorgeous hair at just the angle
and chalked up to sheer nerve
(so beyond the physical of it).
Whatever gets picked up, bouquets of roses
or a best friend’s sister, until
a grudge sets in, objects steer into range
as if to die here. Gosh, I feel awful now —
why can't I leave it alone,
let things get tangled more
and trail along following leads
on a "dog on the run"?

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