3 Voices Poem by ron androla

begin to count the moments from waking until
yr head blends within a black pillow, thousands
of scenes, as if one day is a splattered galaxy.

recount away from the crowd, step back & back
like a photographer without a zoom lens who sees
people as rocky seashore, foam, guts of waves.

live a minute before now, ghost yrself ahead
of who you are, a little blinder, but
more mysteriously mist - thrust a thought

thru monkey-bars of molecules & rope ladders
of dna & the 9-foot thick future where intention
slows, be kinetic, probably comically, but try.

a dead camera is a good camera. paint 3 paintings
simultaneously with both hands. chew at a
glass of iced tea with aching teeth, sear

of that pain & not sane, no, utterly nuts
things you do for definition. define the dead
with mythology, mute their moan.

time is militarized.
secret police surveillance with secret
technology, whim, why nots. necessity.

night heat vision red amoeba of brain
vibrates & static is pulled
into a slow incriminating voice.

give up. grow away. notice
a bowl of french fries, a green
plate of ketchup on the desk.

eat,
fuckers of destiny,
eat.