Vol. 7


JOE MILAZZO
Yaphet Kotto

 

Stardust doesn’t matter when you’re Will
Robinson-ed in the cleft of the leading man’s
chin, this rift tantamount to a laser show itself
the envy of the shock and awe dropping its nothing
like nothing under the sun. Meanwhile,
what would the sun’s shadow look like, I wonder,
panning for lens flares in the unmapped
folds of this hurtling doom while I further marvel
how it is it that my anonymity has yet
to lock into its concussion? Wordless and descending,
the last rayon and dickprint of rocky
empire Koyaanisqatsis on perpendicular
to perpetual nightfall.

An eclipse of an eclipse of an
eclipse just means more dinosaur
memorabilia. Every emission
is a father-in-law
who doesn’t cotton to you
drilling into anything that’s already not,
meanwhile, been drilled down.

The dandelion’s dream is an impact so deep everything
dies in seedy granularity. And I was a dandelion
once. Now, nothing grows here except the play of more
marbles. The truth is that stones skip from the wrist, and not
because the pond has all those webinars
on its resume. Meanwhile, I’m rooted. Island without

ocean, shore
without inland,
a prank Japan cruising on jets of interstellar obsolescence
towards the blind eyes of a terrible reminder:
what cracked up to create
this obdurate dum dum, this craggy
and fallow integrity? Carborundum, adamantium,
unobtainium, balloons of heavy
metals—you’d think
there’d be more geography here.
Instead, “meanwhile” is just a dumping
ground for radio “meh.”

Meanwhile, there’s a word for mummified
shit, and, even though I can’t
flick that bitterness off the tip of my tongue right
now, its name is more of a household item
than any of my odd jobs. Somebody
must care about this momentum.
I prefer the end of time as any trajectory
not named “we” knows it. The end of risk,
the end of Final Jeopardy and killer
potatoes. Look, the sun is super easy to blot out
as long as you can oppose your thumbs.
Oblique objects have a lot of crash in them,
and so does guessing. The winter is going
to fall regardless of whether there’s any sky left
or not. That’s the inexorable doom of
the waiting chorus. When the ending is that easy
and absolute, the old beginnings get
to be difficult. Just like

it soars past baking inside this suitor’s armor, and
my lower third doesn’t face-off with any sympathy
or impress itself upon resolve. I know how far
my witnessing can travel and it isn’t
parsecs. It’s about 4 and 1/2 to 5 minutes:
the predestined span of a song doctor’s
remixing attention. Meanwhile, you better rack
up as many downloads as you can
before the cosmos completes its own.

All I can do is check my reflection
in the polar caps, the extremes
of all extremes spinning wild and meanwhiling
in magnetism’s ghost-rich winds. I wonder
how wonderful it would
have been to have been
discarded at all. Instead, my extinction
splits. Part of me
says, “How horrible it will be when all
of love is but a crater
bigger than any ocean.”
And the other part responds
that the ocean is already a crater, only
one that’s learned the Method
secret to weeping.

There’s no “Oh” in this spectacle.
Instead, a few specks of gravity, frozen dust, some angles.
So rockets get revived, but stupidity
never needs the same kind of CPR.
Here I come, off life-support, looking askance at
my own mass. Can you hear what’s sheared
away in my howling? What if some better
form of life—one less fixated on luscious mouths,
and sentimental summons, and the problems of fire
escape sex, and erotic humiliation—is latent
in the great glob about
to abort the earth? We never ask Armageddon
if it thinks about its own blood moon,
or sweats as its sciatica erupts from its
nihilistic sowing. Meanwhile: that’s my fantasy.

Meanwhile, if I don’t loom and I
don’t admonish and I don’t
boggle, I might sink myself
far enough into myself
that I can nitro all recognition, drop
a mic of TNT and atomize
the very notion of renown
and its cheesy Anthropocene texture.

But envision me a derelict
with a toothpick, trying
like hell to break the gristly
heart of the world. Meanwhile, while
I plot some killer genesis, I suspect
I shouldn’t miss a thing and I should
get to work first
in the billboard tragedy of my teeth.

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