Heath Brougher writes

Tripledose 

The charm-o-phile lottery is rigged; in earnest; the birds earn their nests from the candy wrappers and cigarette stubs littered among city and vale; you took the jumped and gone, made way to resign the turn; it is a charm-pummeled bracelet; lose it; your wrist loosened it from the evermore clamp and you dice the roll down the hill; the maybe random maybe isn’t so random; it’s stuffed aerosol concoctions reverberate to quench Mankind’s rebate; you strode tall, stabbing fireworks for the time-being, being time the diagram has heaps of circles made of rectangles; bent; shape-shifted; wrecked and tangled like brushstroke; each fuzzy warm brushstroke and bristle until the brushstroke comes undone and you in your simultaneous years flap lobes and the baby is hewn elderly; if you only knew the essence of what I saw, you’d not joke or jibe about this poem or retrieval of lost parts on the factory floor; missing eye; missing thumb; you have no idea where the strings attach for a proper aura; aural slants delve into brain cysts; there is nothing left to say; only walls to stare at for days on end.