Kirmizi_ada

Recently, spam has become immune to my mail-filter, which means a flood of nonsensical nonesense in my inbox.
I take this hard, and personally. But ever since I saw Sigourney Weaver play Scrabble in "Snow Cake" two days ago, spam subject-lines have taken on a kind of mystical directivity. I've started collecting them. They make nice little titles for poems.
Here's one called:


Embalm boom box


We lean a minute on our grouty machines,
We read this note again,
each holding a corner of the post-it paper still

We watch the fibers
air-lifting the syllables
out and elsewhere

(because you couldn’t count
on the humans—
they say a lot with those mouths they have,
but not this:)

The three b’s stewing under and
up like cherries without their skins
How every thing gets modified
How sticky transitive and blind

I think about the regional manager
Folding back down into that silvery rental car
Out campaigning for her losers again
Or calling-in to call-in centers

Did she picture us standing over this,
taped down queer on the mixer table
Under the flour-lacked timeclock

Maybe my colleague has thought of better questions:
will the solution hold
doesn’t it rot the speakers
won’t the switches and inputs fall lame

when do you know to stop
do we just work our time up here in silence
which delivery van does it go in when we’re done?

Looks as if written on the steering wheel
Or on something else void and shaky
(You can feel that dust
stuck on the back.)