--- C H R I S   M A R T I N

I sit with a caged bride
and am totaled 

by my 

love for the irreparable 
music of the copy

machine

like puncturing
yourself in the floodplain

of the Ganges 

or sleeping about manatees 
through a mid-day flight

I rise and do

a luau jig in porkshoes
a breaded life vest

about the bones

of my shoulders
should I err on

the side of posterity

what unforeseen good will
gilded ink do me and my

ilk in the pre-apocalypse calm?