INTERVIEW WITH A MAN FOR WHOM HYPNOTISM HAS FAILED.

I admit: I love reruns of West Side Story b/c

The Sharks & The Jets snap their fingers enough times

for 100 hypnocrits (like me) to awaken . . . changed,

but no. I linger beside battery-op clocks

await the flashing red eye on a smoke detector or

gorge myself on the dink/dink of a turn signal (on the bus;

the 96 local; the same driver w/ a fondness for lefts;

he phoned the fuzz & I implored them to ratchet my wrists

w/ cuffs; I welcomed arrest & re-arrest; but no;

“Scram!”) Into which set of mythologies can I hope to arise?

Maybe something like the regal marches of Albert Ayler

b/c nobody could disprove his godliness (asleep, there,

in the East River) or the one/nil metronome of

kids teeter/tottering in the park, I should be an optimist


[NaPoWriMo Sonnet #1. Too, see: Blogpost to a Young Poet.]