Nights of reruns with brief, lost faces
feed the illusion of prediction
as if a magician's assistant living out of a suitcase
were cut in half . . .
location . . . location . . . location . . .
You as stopgap at the supermarket
comparing tongues with other sous chefs
squeezing into line for a virtual rollerama
of one-upmanship . . .
sampling tidbits for a breakout special
enjambed with abandon
awaiting a redo of the Breakfast of Champions . . .
The resident Kerouacian behind the deli counter
types a cemetery
on a roll of butcher paper . . .
a makeover for aspirants outside the walls
carries you through a thicket of unknowns
with one-way tickets to elsewhere . . .
