The Seattle Poem
The Seattle Poem
Our living room is constantly packed with dazzling figures clad
in the jazziest finery. The residence is a party that never stops.
never dies. If your kind of party is one whose guests
are headless and silent, pop by please.
The language of wigs and hair falls and stage names, Tequila Mocking Bird,
Inga Ingenue, Lady Lydia, Honey Deluxe, Indigo Blue, Glamazonia,
SHE SAID My Hair is Power, the immense weapon.
it is her game dialed down to the tendrils.
down to the electrodes.
neural synapses form memories. and my memory was sluttish with despair
that I kept playing over and over like ode on a fugue on a dirge
set to sea without sails. Wild billowing circuitousness.
Always going home. The play for a classic madness.
Always with the show girls, The Hair!
wrapped around pinkies, perched on skulls,
swinging amoebic accessories of a personality.
I was genuinely scared
by scarecrow of pretty stuffs.
Costumes were a lazy way to communicate
the underlying sentiment of speechlessness.
brains were all reverb and static and, can you name that tune?
and she never could– name that tune.
My relationship to technology as communicative is synthetic,
and, as mechanical, is disastrous. When I first moved to Seattle
I was petrified of (and therefore uncontrollably attracted to) cool
minimalist cafes run by sexy, tight pants men. that is,
until he burned up. we burned him. And he returned to the desert.
Courtney Love. she did not file for domestic violence, and the debate is,
did our modern day jesus, with brackish grin and greasy hair and all of his sensitivity,
did he throw a punch?
and did she take it like a man? or murder him
THIS MORNING’S fast breaking