“A spectrum is half a continuum,”
I said over a semi’s CB,
neither conspirator, progenitor,
nor broadband host
as the Nevada of a notion parceled forth.
Mention a test site and I’ll endow your
iridium by the bushel-load,
adjutant to the wheel grease.
“Pardon my lotus,” I said reporting
for self-fulfilling in the oncology wing,
calm as cobalt,
having dithered my life gawking at static
to which my diagnoser said,
“we photobombed malignancy
for the betterment of this sentence.”
He should’ve said “pitch.”
I know all the overtones in a chainsaw’s shrub minuet
(pretty much everything The Who recorded after 1975),
but parlor tricks do not a prison term stave.
No carpenter fomenting my basket of bioethics,
I know chromosomal rattan,
Hodgkin’s from my non-
the placebo’s goosed,
side effect of living sublime.
daily I bob for narrative,
my cellmate taken with astrology, hoarding the Quantum News.
Not for nothing is telemetry in disrepute.
Retrograde scalding, the shower is fugue.