Clump Soul. Katamari in 4 Parts.
Warren C. Longmire
At crux of the rainbow: Blackness.
The King must fade in twinkling church
organ and WWF belt.
Must be decked in
purple fractal templed column
cuffed with starched puffed renaissance. Crossed
forearms. Spanx glitter blue towering over
the tiny green bud of you.
It was not a dream.
Even as you roll through the earth, he follows
crowned in goatee. Sprawling amoeba frame.
Monosyllabing your efforts:
Are you sad now? Attaching yourself
to your first?
Should we write it in your journal, little Prince?
You are 16 and vacuuming every small
pink brand in the living room:
the short yellow screw
the caramel voxel that never melts
the memory card imagining
this is what will blur the world finally
into the size of a man. Anything
that scampers. Roll it up before it runs.
You are coaxing the roof from a place of worship
with Sisyphus gizmo. The company men
squirm. The dog never stops wagging you are
from plucking a sick catamaran from the stiff
shape of a lake. This is when the rainbow overtakes you
spreading wide from the King’s open mouth. From his soft
gloved right hand.