Overloaded
Fearlobes (or) Cortex in the Vortex
1
Sleep has been more like war than death. Lennon was in the foyer screaming, “I’m
shot! I’m shot!” The dog had swallowed a bullhorn stuck on siren mode.
Somewhere, someone died of a disease I can’t pronounce. In a dusty old print, Andy Warhol was shot by
a figment of his assistant’s imagination. He bled an inverted sunset. The
colors were like heads exploding.
2
I thought that Iran was bombing my house, but it was only my new cell phone
ringtone. New Message: My mom wants me to eat more fruit. Meanwhile, my congressman keeps tweeting
me nude photos. And, that creepy guy who shot Gabrielle Giffords is climbing
the walls like a neurotic spider. He’s still wearing an evil Joker smile, and his
eyes don’t quite match one another.
3
Tomorrow, there will be cornflakes and chicory and love songs
and victories and offhand sexual innuendo and euphoric bouts of true hope.
Until then, I’m going to crawl under the bed and sing Disney songs in my best
Death Metal voice. That type of sonic and phonic experimentation usually frightens
my mental disorders back into their respective dens. Based on this new empirical evidence: I think God is telling me
that my television must die.