A Forum for the New World Order

I want to publicly register my absence
from the first back correction,
as I was either unborn.
Or how would such a young mind possibly
recall, dear me?
In reality,
I remember ajar furnace door,
warmly darkened garage,
back brace
on Dad leaning painfully
on Mom.
The latest invasion was not;
a tiny cut to accommodate a camera,
and other tools,
through a vast tunnel from spine to dermis,
to surgeon’s hands,
on-screen.
In my lifetime,
things once butcherous have sleakened.
For I remember this time;
the day I looked at my wake.
Reminded, it’s mine.
From a nuclear depth;
I got, I have, I’m fixin’
my make-up.
Backbone.
Spine.

I saw a woman
crossing long-striped-legged
Dwight Way.
Her men siren sang.
She sprang and
wore yellowpolkadot flowersinherhair
Let me know if those
bluesuedeshoes from my Mom are oktogo.
He tells me to get off
of ‘em.
Cuz siren sing and shake
‘em.
McPaul knows.
They’re in heat.