Look Down On Me
Take me at my
image. I am stretchered
and chambered into a big, grand
finish. It will melt across
your wayfaring resistance, your flickering video-screens
and your disdain. Unhinged. Unbidden
it lunges for me from across the room.
But I am barely there. I am walking, alone, on the Zoom
across some island, somewhere
a little too out there
for destiny to give chase. For your idea of me to pursue
all of my flowers. No catching this little gay Sandy Lion.
I'm not waiting around. I have the rain, and the wind, and the fire
to unearth.
I think you think I'm too profane
too be truly disturbed
by your surveillances, your strange guest speakers,
your insinuations that I am no such leader
as you might want to monitor
to such an excessive degree
that I end up wanting to meet a
different Kevin Martens;
one not caught on camera
or left to tend
someone else's gardens.
One left to himself, at least,
and all of his own
very non-infernal devices.