Spin the world, DJ –

How can one man
produce so much noise?

The lights melt
my ears/my soul.
My feet fly with
messenger’s wings.

Spin the world, DJ:
How can one circle
imply so many memories?

(The liquor lights
my throat/my groin.
My hands twirl lapis
wands: summoning.)

The world spins, DJ;
forever patient,
the watcher watches.

[I jumped up on the speaker,
felt the bass pump my soul. But
in my ecstasy, I didn’t notice
the thumb caught in my corner
pocket. Amid thoughts of St.
Annie, bones snapped, never to
heal/feel/breath/death/hell’s/bells.]

The watcher waits,
forever repentant;
the world spins, DJ.

Spin the world, DJ:
How can the bass
create such feeding frenzy?

(The nicotine burns
my tongue/my mind.
My toes tingle as
mere phantom limbs.)

Spin the world, DJ –
How can I still hear
through the restroom’s door?

White is the source of
my thoughts/my madness.
My psychosis is this
spinning world, DJ.

From Michael Anthony Adams, Jr’s collection of poetry, Recipe for a Future Theogony.