Dead Zeppelin

This is a pop triumph,
the conquest of happiness
that subverts sunshine
and makes shadows soar
in importance.
Regardless of the impotence
of bibles and buddhas,
Siddhartha's smiles
mean exactly what you'd think.
The failure of the Hindenburg
to satisfy is America's
microcosmic life story.
We thought we were
getting out alive.
We thought we were
living our dreams.
It just goes to show
that you may know
what you know,
but you never really know
what it means.

-Bram Sadosa

Hello, Comrade

Hello, walrus, wanton wreaker
of havoc and the like.
"spent," said simeon of his
masterful scandalous types.
bury your buddies in earth
softest cloth sofa-symbols
enclosing my voodoo
and bonding insomnia ties
to similarly shaped clavicle bones.

Hello, tiger, entrancing travesty
of flesh peeled from tendons.
you, sir, irreverent to a tee
and schooling the cells in me
with instructional pamphlets
and self-help tips for those we
call the Woebegones.

Hello, stingray, scalding synonym
for simple-minded folk like me.
the difference out of water flopping
awkwardly is the neutered tip
of the buddha's poisonous bubble.
I am scrawny dawn at six,
wrapping my lips around
slip-sliding cliffs rising in rhythm
with sunlit tones crossing haphazardly
across the horizon in front of she.

-Bram Sadosa

Telegram, 2008

My toes are sending
a message
to my heart -
about self-inflicted smog,
so many pinpricks
in my lungs
that they look like art.
COULD YOU QUIT, PLEASE (STOP)
WE'VE GOT AN ITCH, SEE (STOP)
It's the trick of evolution
(call it Darwin's Final Solution)
that the mind - not the feet -
came out on top.
So, dear audience
(since everything's on TV,
you might as well review me),
here's the punchline:
it's a clot.

-Bram Sadosa

New Vision

It is a simple rainfall, really.
I am a thorn thrown
implicitly,
a tag-along
ribbon on a runaway
balloon.

Seconds push and wriggle,
digging out a place for:
inherent pleas,
jubilantly
tugging their ears resolutely
at home -

With without their nine-ten
faculties
I direct them myself in
unseemly symphonies,
symphonies unseen since
the shapes they assume
are no longer
chronologically arranged.

Settle down,
speak coherently or turn
your eyes to me
so I can bereave the loss
of my anti-organic
identity.
You see string theory,
I see chaos and meat, ultimately.

It is a simple rainfall, really,
until it turns to ice and snow.
Every particular moment aids
entropy,
as a centrifuge
spins together: loves and moves
almost unerringly.
I am spell woven
indignantly,
a missile sent
to prey upon the minds of men.

-Bram Sadosa

Life by Numbers

I would like, she said,
to traverse this boundary
separating peace and fear
to see what is in between.
Her eyes, sharp and unfocused,
the seed-darts of lotus,
cannot honestly see without
the simultaneous shudder
that I often duplicate
when losing myself
in a theory of Horror.
Is a mask, she asks,
actually a mask if
the facade is the same
as the face it obscures?
A question, of course,
to which I have no reply,
instead I shrug my shoulders
and you shrug your shoulders
and she shrugs her shoulders
and continues making snowflakes:
simply fold,
and cut along the dotted line.

-the ambassador