The Candor of a Dead Pixel Anemone

As the fans cascade the wave,
the appetite grows to a heavy burden
twig snaps into a firework of fresh
dopamine as the virgin emerges to
her despoiled kingdom of rooks
salivating to an audacious melody
writhing in the rhythm of conformity
so many sacrifices spent to climb
over the one in line in front of you
slathered in the daily pantone
reciting the color-lore with shameless
condescension or that metastatic pus
of self-righteousness that confuses
the lyric with the original oath
to accept the flagrant subjectivity of
a peacock's mirror mistaken for
eyeglasses and calling it 20/20

Yet some atoms sleep in, either as
the ocean waves pass over or in 
the heat of recursive resonation
unmistakably not a colloid of 
the mocha mousse miasma of the
communal cilia caught bamboo bending 
some may call them broken those dead
and overlooked voids of the array
who right when wrong then left when right
to their own idiosyncratic filter
feeding on a Daniel's diet with unfurled
flagella maculated with trichomes over
diopside puddles dancing in the rainshine

But take a closer look beneath the
polarizing filters and the shadow mask,
each pixel a triumvirate of psyches
with ragged edges slightly out of spec
one side always dimmer than the others
though the mailbox numbers iterate
this microscopic desert of the metal-whiskered
lies quietly throbbing with the heat
of the passing sinusoidal exergy of
rogue particles arranged in unique 
crystallographies squeezed through your
frankenstein prism, an overgrown burl of
biases caught in pinched differentials
truncated by foreign equations never to
scar over with chimeral gene expressions 
grown into long thin fancy fins frayed
but undulating in the backwash of
tesseract imaginings snapped into the focus
of a lower oxidation state gracefully
illuminating with unexpected brilliance
an unmapped chromatic lagoon surrounded
by straw-wheat acres of the lockstepped
who evaporate their aspirations into clouds
of unrequited duties well performed
and with bushels of badges adorned

If only the stifled urge could escape
the intended orbit and plunge into the
honest agency of the unviking to
find its mark between the crater's rim,
a solitary gulp of warmth blooming
before the cold water dance resumes 
awaiting a stir of ocean dander
instead of swiping the last apple
from the serpent's neighbor-mouth
and crowning yourself a George 
of exaggerated vilifications and
the hero of an alternate patriotism
whose self-indulgent defenses 
immaturely invent wocky madness
so they can piss into their own wind
and smile with their thirst sated
but it was never me xor thee 
as if hunger were an option or
our yellow piddling puddling pride 
were without waste or ichor of bile

No, the unpretentious punchline is
that our mushrooms prepare the grave
for unfallen seed we will never bear
barely discerning our single fathom
so let us entrust our weary head
to the lap of Gaia's follies and
chastise no child for their naked
innocence.