de trop
Half-full of someone like a mother
or her lover unbuttoned in dad’s
traveling robe, turned around
in an instant, to the strained grace
of pointed cameras. A kleptomaniac
of attention, eyes pinched in to lit
aluminum, hoarding the latest loss
of memory in a cipher nation of nervous
oblivion, entertaining what remains
of the children. Bozo is staring at his
shoes again, doing his damnedest
to pronounce gratuitous, scratching
lotto tickets at the high white counter,
slurping the last from his super monster
size cup, wondering where he can go
to cash in his principle and who made
off with his only Sunday suit. Conception
was a talk show. Celebrities appeared
from the workshirts behind the louvers
in accordian closet doors. He knows
he’s responsible for his bad reception.
He wants to edit his inheritance, stuff
his finger up an aperture, sleep through
the whole morning. No, make that afternoon.