In which the transformer heaves-projectile from the telephone pole.
In which the pole snaps awake—its miter box-guts emptied out
over an oscillating fan. In which atomized rot rains
atop the Crabapple’s pet name-pheromones, in which nobody notices.
Creation song in which electrified shrapnel voids:
Bedazzled yard gnome, limestone garden ornaments. Remote control
Ferrari, real life-Range Rover, in which somebody notices.
Creation song in which six kids crowd around pigskin
curious, the tallest boy prodding the ball with a stick.
Creation song in which your online bank account is unavailable.
In which your exquisite 60 inch flat screen is an HD plastic heap.
In which the matchstick feels Paleolithic & you could be making love.
Creation song in which unattended sparks sizzle along a chain-
link fence. In which everyone heads for the gates.