Things inside the tent did not seem quite normal.
Here I am,
Snuggled in adipose,
Ceaselessly reeling towards some haughty bliss.
A wholesome chaos.
Brewing here.
Effervescing.
A puke orange sun drips into the lake,
The mirror,
Sending a trillion jocose radiating cracks at
     the Chautauqua by the bay.

Where dreams are made, I have no name.
You can call me Al.
You can call me a Menshevik and stiff-backed and a transient.
I’m all of these.
I’m none of these.
All of the above.
I’m the 11:22 train late for Dallas.
I’m the 11:22 train late for Dallas.
I’m the 3:16 hydrofoil from St. Johns.
Think about it. Think about me.
Think. And suffer.
Think and suffer and bleed two quarts of ethanol and
     a blazing river of golden ecstasy.
Drink it. Drink it again, by the keg, by the bay.
Give it a fancy name and live forever.

Shave your head.
Make a movement.
Make the movement the crisp flick of a match set
      straight to your flesh.
But don’t call it ‘your’ flesh.

Is it plausible,
That we, Mensheviks,
Basking in the warm of the bay they call Chautauqua,
Have founded a cargo cult?
If this be nonsense,
Pray tell what isn’t.
Things inside the tent did not seem quite normal.
I walked outside.