thought dream 032409

The telegraph isn't working.
The airplane tumbled off the tracks.

My steam-powered radio only picks up
a Portuguese-language station.

If it's not raining.

And the guards around the broadcast tower

haven't gotten drunk again
and pissed on the transmitter.

We need funding.
We need someone to dredge the abyss.

So many children ignored the razor wire
and chased that wayward ball to the edge.

The Mandarins have left the auditorium.

Tour the subterranean passageways and
the grotto where the Virgin appeared.

Don't stand near the opening.
Don't stand near the battery-operated generator.

Your cell phones won't work here.

We strapped duct tape on the x-ray machine
to prevent sparking.

We sent forms in triplicate
to the appropriate federal agency.

Awaiting reply.

Sooner or later.

Keep taking the pills.
Hand me those pliers.

What's wrong with this frequency?
Why don't you love me like you used to do?

What happened to the monitors?
Are we there yet?

Try to avoid his spleen.
Did you wash your hands first?

It's all we could get.

Sooner or later.

That's fado, baby. Pure fado.

thought dream 012709

The Dark Knight driven backwards
into a field of poppies. A tractor.
A herd of sheep. The wind shrieks

out of caves and grottoes, demanding
recompense for all the damage. Your
Batmobile will do you no good here.

The men still hunt rabbits and cook
them in garlic. The 22,000 variations
of the Virgin Mary will not hear

your cry for help, your loneliness,
your bat signal. Gotham will go down
into the abyss, we all know that.

No billionaire capitalist in a rubber
suit can stop us from eviscerating
ourselves. It's the field of poppies

and the dirt road covered in paper-
thin garlic skins that you should fear.
The ten-thousand year-old demon

of the ordinary that awaits you.