Dagoba Scanlines

why does everything we have have to be
buckled into scrubs a handclap of plastic
a more than faster jog 
toward the point where we began 
giving it all we've got a trot 
swimming side by side through the storm
roles rotating like clockwise persons
rowing our arms like oars 
wings of reclaimed wood
cutting into the cloudy darkness 
flying a wind-whipped flag by your side
hovering in queen space over the world lords
astonished and buckled into stratosphere
recreated in a series of nods and snorts
a marbled collection of regrettable moments
presaged and foretold in a complicated ritual
of grunts and sub-guttural exclamations
hearing the scattered voicemails of
a retired porpoise trainer and reggae music impresario
formerly known simply as "Dario"
handclap-sounding cascading bullet fire
punctuating a memory of childhood slights
clotted under sickle moons the hairs from the block tangle
the roots pull up and tear out of the ground
a black and brown sunflower whispering for death
rending the earth of roots and branches
your videos make you seem even further away
my already hungry body digesting itself
footfalls used far too often in relation to the wind
to the descending shimmer of first true rainfall