right hand pointing

Years of sleep, 

that’s what we are,

nervous music howling

at itself,

enormous,

as this world and the next,

bedrooms filled with little Elvises

gyrating in an orchard of tears.

It’s S.R.O.

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.