Culture some secret

commune somewhere

where everybody is

properly nurtured

the sky never the same

sky provides a running

excuse to procrastinate

as reception of space’s

greater glory the sublimity

of waiting the moment

comes from the ground

up easy money on

the bottom shelf a wave

of the hand and living

suddenly in euphoric

delusions of targeted

jubilee the omelet glows

between the light and

the melted cheese music

summons an interior

aural image of ABBA

which makes me long

to talk to my dad again

just a phone call away

will someone sneak up

to embarrass me you

wouldn’t believe where they

stuff the transubstantiated

capital these days and look

it’s just laying on the floor

to be tripped over flex

of chorus trips a memory

signal I was well cared for

why can I not open

my mouth and speak

these relations into repaired

being invert the check mark

to strike heaven anxiety boils

the gut working class slobs

get hydrated easy multiple

trips up and down the stairs

bring beauty of futility into

relief the drama’s all

in the architecture

of the prose and sound

of the approach not guilty

not guilty not guilty not guilty

not guilty not guilty

pick up the phone

Jeremy Hoevenaar lives in a barrel he can wear to the marketplace. He is the author of Our Insolvency and Cold Mountain Mirror Displacement.