Licing Home 2
Home is t/ era premobilephone. & home
should be t/ Special 1 (I don't mean Jose Mourinho,
I mean you, my Dark Cow) texting me 'Coo-ee!'
from Ground Control, coaxing your Hailey's hedgehog
doing crunches across t/ onhigh not to drop
& do 10, but to
drop l/ jaws that
drop l/ drawers
that
drop on Maddermarketactors' bedsitfloors
that
drop to mattamores that
drop to kilroywasosaurs,
but I only dropped in on t/ tropopause
to lance t/ shebang skies w/ my
quills of deepfried icecream, laced w/ space rabies,
bristling on brink of comingback. Home
to t/ storm of Youall, Allyou who brontopoodle below
at such places as Seathwaite Comicon,
Jemimah Puddleduck cosplayers imprinting,
ellisislanding under t/ cloudburst to belong,
a rare chase variant home.
Suchwhere as most aphelian of hopes
to pitch his crater torments
my Dark Cow's tiggywinkle cometkins.
Home is in or out, even & especially f/
erinaceous poet aster more fugue than fuego.
In anticipation, I've already parkoured
on galilee pads up t/ raindrops, 'gainst t/ graindrops
& thru a kristallnacht scratch in this draughty
pleasuredome, blew my nose & moved on.
& so t/ deal is cast
l/ President Pomeranianhead Donald J.TRUNT
w/ his arm in plaster after his unyuge
grubhook fractured whilst rokemsokemrobopunching
pussies by t/ jellicleload; so t/ die is sealed
l/ a fly in amber or a Spiderman in mylar: leave
f/ a home I may never know until & if & evenafter
I arrive in time f/ any hometime, f/ some
Heraclitean breathingspace where I might stretch
my hérissé coma; leavin' f/ a heliosheathean, Lethean
heaven in an incommunicado sonicboom,
w/out so much as a pulsar's
come-on from afar or an 'E.T. phonehome'
(also my era).