Negative Aerobics

Sand over brick the symbol is deceiving; then,
Not a tidbit too soon, an ambivalent twit
Parts an argument twixt equal texts—
Twining snake-song like a symbol
As a flagpole pegs my silhouette in shadow.
Second bell. It’s salsa night somewhere tonight,
I’m motionless, that takes a body, too;
Not two like Tylenol, but also, as in all’s well
For the teleologue stuck in the middle. Sister,
That’s not dialectics, that’s the plot of History
The Movie, with Guy Mount on Petty Cash
(I’d know that wallet anywhere) and Tom on props:
His taste is that touch of detachable class
The age requires to grace itself with Past.
Even the Martian was a Marxian by nomination,
A thirst so raggedy, the first come last—

In any light, astride his schnoz, he smashed
Depicting angels in the throes of whose
Clouds coyly cover his datura. Noted as
Dogears come unclasped, eventful eaves
At intervals throughout the paneled hall―
The breeze pries shadows from the wall.

The couple chose a song denoting faith
Which is impossible without itself, is faith:
A clammy surface doesn’t sweat the words.
A kind of self-styled stickler for results
Or ‘bling’ used incorrectly as a verb―
An ice cream medley seldom only melts. 

Christ on a spit the symbol is corrupt—
If it ain’t broke don’t try to break it. Mine is
Not up for adoption nor debate. Then, whenever
Possible, each denizen must do her mini-best
To stop Sneezy with a storebought dreadlock
Moving in; like bad lil’ Rimbaud
Was an only oogle, vying for a spare key
With the codeword ‘commune’ on his tongue—
And if you can’t host un poete maudit, why hire
Any artless stranger for the part of vector?
Crypto-fabulist in filthy denim, freshly
Mended by Tom in the part of Mom, hirsute
In cotton, naked in the shade; even the hair-shirt
Is a second-hand brocade. If it ain’t folksy
Fake it. If it was stolen, someone paid.

 

To the heart of the chintzy nativity―
Economy, fate willing, withdrew what
His mark intensity, skim useless, let
Dry to an ochre hue; graphs varicose
Gird nothing but the Grid as fantasy.
Eats birdseed but emits a subtle light. 

Transparency, nutrition, vintage, play.
I heard the sub-bass through the walls
Of mine and six consecutive dank stalls
Graffiti flattering my penmanship—
God’ left these digits to be pissed
Upon, to break the barrier. We Must.

*

CAM SCOTT is a poet, critic, and improvising non-musician from Winnipeg, Canada, Treaty One territory. He performs under the name Cold-catcher and writes in and out of Brooklyn. A visual suite, WRESTLERS, was published by Greying Ghost in 2017.

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