All the acid trips in the world

couldn't compare to the monkish throat music

rising from his diaphragm like 

vibrations dancing high wire Charlestons

between tin can phones.



He said, “I can take all the sorrow in the world

and make a snowball out of it with

grade A, one hundred per-cent cognition;

something all your multiprocessors

and your supercomputer mother tongue couldn't compete with.”



And people congregated around him

like black-smudge sparrows on clothesline telephone wires

and knelt at his feet as if he was some

neo-Jesus,

some latter day Messiah.



But pretzeling yourself into lotus positions

like titans doing calisthenics

is easier said then done. He preached that the secret

was knowing when to listen.

The ambiguity of this wisdom bled from the ears of the people



and coagulated in the form of 

iPod earbuds and they reverted to vaguely contemplating

the Berlin walls running through their 

cerebral hemispheres;

mortar bricks constructed of a trillion



lols and rotfls and lmaos.