I was exactly of the eighth year when I needed you.
By nine, my fidgety feet jerked concentrically
Bettie Page, back-latched to a switchbaord.
Line one's propriety
Line two's reticence
Line three's tradition
And by the fourth patch-through, I'm new.
By '96, I was ten.
I had a terrible habit of running into things
And seeing their awful dimensions,
A dodecahedron is just a census
Of
A dozen faceless congregations
Dealing caps, in worn undercurrents.
Need is ageless, it's everywhere at once.
It's 4:17pm in Los Angeles, and I'm twenty-two.
I've been hacking away at this new age
But
The belly of Buddha is the free-market-trade.
It's NAFTA
It's a coiling of underpassed fat roots
And distentions
Swollen, as the aged cocoon sacks,
That once latched to my branches back home.