Replicant Poetry

I, too, disinhabit it.

I like your 3 a.m. funambulism
and those dimenhydrinate
spits

that spiral backwards
into the drink.

Your Judd or Smithson
stainless steel ocean.

I guess your poem's sociopathy
saw itself twinned
in my upswing mania.

So we flew
together briefly,

False Dioscuri.

O Foveally Candescent
Infomercial,
I fear and miss you.

I miss as much
as you, to speak
properly, to truculate

as you always do.

Barren Moon
of the hysterisexual,
Homo-Ahistorical Cave.

Hilariousphone.

Your Great Disconnect
leads me only to an arena
turned back to sand.

You do not know
the Invisible Goddess

and this makes you sad.

But still you are my brother.

Brother as "Still Life
by Medea," never mortified
enough to feel.

Yet, even the arachnid
weaves filaments of Light.