“The question is,” said Humpty Dumpty, “which is
to be master . . . ?”
- Lewis Carroll
I trip on someone’s mispagination
stumble into the aftermath
and find myself
tumbling down a rabbit hole
CPAs riding shotgun
surrounded by geishas
the whole thing streamed
laced with clips of Umbrian carousels
women on wooden horses
slender downy arms
detached from torsos
stretching for gold rings
their long, lean legs straining
against stirrups
ankles capped with silver
holding me trancelike
my breath tottering on the brink.
I hit the refresh button
escape though a hidden panel of experts
and search for one of those
elongated nudes by the sculptor
whose walking man
set a record at Sotheby’s.
A trombone accompanies the search party
hosted by a woman wearing nothing
but a virtual apron
the theater of her teeth
so white so straight
delivering lines with the precision
of a metronome
perseverating on a checkmate
and determined to act it out in 3D.
I am lost in translation
my imagination
the resident of a double-wide
with high speed Internet access and dish
awaiting spring
and the advent of the buy one get ones.
When I awake
I am wet from top to bottom
my vision double
my knees shaking
stained with grass.
I shake blades from my hair
check the looking glass for evidence
and find an invoice
scribbled with a blunt object
crouching in the hair of my left armpit.
