There is absence, there is lack


Wangechi Mutu, Riding Death in My Sleep, 2002

Not Fit For Twitter
-- Dennis Mahagin

Swear off our media
and the Beast will starve
you, shunned from the belly

of July's picnic trance
as a light plane drools
and drones at blue

expanse.
Zimmerman
was the blimp

in a scrutinized sky,

by the end,
I was so sick

at the sight of him,
started imagining
aftermath of a farce
wherein the bald lawyer
called West

might advise
purchasing

a treadmill…

“Yeah George ...
Bowflex makes a damned
good one now I hear
in fact they're
the best,”

West might
say, grinning and
pumping the pasty
plump ham of his

infamous client.
Talking heads

notwithstanding
it’s true
what the seers
have often said,

that Conscience
makes you do
strange

things, start to eat, eat
say, in horrible earnest
after telling
Humpty, or Hannity
that the killing
“was God’s plan…”
I watched that man
on the tube,
sort of inscrutable bland
calm rabid Michelin Man

gone beyond

his ground

standing, Kafka
and still,

ballooning,

ballooning
impassive

ribbon curl of hungry
lip twitch, starch
collar dolphin
flip tie on the cheap
tourmaline suit.

And somebody in my
circle of friends said
“ain’t hardly the end
for Zim... now he gets
to know how it feels
to be hunted …”
After the spectacle
that made me so sick, I
couldn’t stop listening

to what lawyers

said

over and over
as a bad glutton
being force

fed, being

force

fed
I stripped
the day bed, did
dishes, scoured
every TV room
with Pine Sol
Windex and
Clorox
bleach.
“This story, sure had
some legs,” another talking
head said “it bled, and bled
and bled and
bled …”

Trayvon, long gone
with the fall leaves, skinny
skinny ass gust and swirl
while buy and

by George celebrates
incommunicado, fat
fingers

moon face deep
in five pies, blue
berry, mince meat
pumpkin, key
lime and
peach.