Keep your signal muted
between portholes,
hand over the candle
by whose light countries salute
through the wireless trees,
the Bluetooth sea.
Like some weepy new analogue
you've got to root listen,
double down on a good star
and start building your dreams there.
The enemy may design
fantastic skyscrapers
to crush your cool view, skipper;
what's important is to sleep
without preconditions,
lead your army anywhere.


Dawn shakes your breath
with the enemy's,
a cold breeze pressing light
against the fanatic horizons
as if trying to preserve
the quarterly earnings
graphed by their tax-free mountains.
Some clouds fall down
and it looks like an ambush,
so you reach into the ocean
and pull out a tuna sandwich,
I mean you pull out a dolphin,
no you pull out Hölderlin,
you pull me out.
I holler "what century are we in"
and you inhale "the 1970s."
"This isn't a tower," I weep.
Then I fall asleep.


The planets look gorgeous
when we're navigating:
French in the twilight,
German after soup.
The boat shifts four times a minute,
a listless economy.
Try tacking in that.
It's like imagining a zipper
every time you piss.
Like funding a new carol
when you're feeling altruistic.
Listen: the flags are snapping
intensely offensive salutes
500 beats per minute.
Let's drink margaritas
like post-baccalaureate surfers.
This showdown must be serious.