Years of sleep,
that’s what we are,
nervous music howling
as this world and the next,
bedrooms filled with little Elvises
gyrating in an orchard of tears.
until Fatal Message Error,
then, everyone races to the back of the line,
tries to become spooky action at a distance.
Trust me, on this skinny blonde planet,
we’re Dreamsicle ghosts flinching
in an atmosphere festive as a childhood
gang marauding a pet cemetery.
Meanwhile, the ice-eyed reptiles,
chill in their slow blood,
one-hundred million years confident
this has got to blow over.
Appeared in Right Hand Pointing, Issue 81, November, 2014