Knowledge of Surface


In some suburb,
freshly dribbled dreams
niggle on,
brooding on 
flat rubber legs,
going to seed.

This is grass.
This is redwood,
asphalt and glass.

Curiosity snores in time
with satellite noise.
A droning
stone-age boulder.

"I know everything."
"They told me."

Stainless marionettes sleep
in a magnetic field of the norm,
pillow to pillow.
Disinterested technicians,
homogenized inside,
seamlessly free.

The retina lies
at the core of their eye,
rejecting zoology.

Occasionally it displaces
knowledge of surface
with a wink and a gust,
coarsening the soft grain
of flannelled, plastic babies
whose birthmarks glow
beef-red against
veal-colored skin.

How quickly they scab over.
Drying like faded tattoos
in a wind scented
with frying fast-food,
waiting to be 
peeled back.

One thin crusader
stands in line,
cheeks pink,
rubbing bleary eyes.
"I'll take some coffee, 
 to go."