Spin Cycle

I am in control.

                                                                       Here comes the sun
                                                                       Little darlin'
                                                                       Here comes the sun
                                                                       And I said
                                                                       It's all right
                                                                       It's all right
Don't remember the rest.
                                                                       Here comes the sun
                                                                       Little darlin'
Lost that record years ago.
                                                                       ...all right
                                                                       It's all right

Life or scratched vinyl?
Mine skips in stereo:
Me, myself, I,
                                                                       Little darlin'
John, Paul, George, Ringo.
Continuous loop.

Ancient newsprint lines the walls.
Lennon: {Yoko, solo, sober, shot}
McCartney: was not there to sing the song
Harrison: {wrote it, sang it, bought it (cancer)}
the drummer: {got by (help from friends), got subsequently lost}

                                                                       It's all right
                                                                       It's all right
                                                                                 right-handed thought
                                              scrawled illegibly
(left-handed hand)
in blunt-pencil graphite
on week-old grocery receipts,
affixed to obliging door with obliging plastic thumbtacks.
                                                                      
One can almost read
by the gloomy, sing-songy evidence that

                                                                       Here comes the sun

shines through the leather-upholstered keyhole
(one eye open)
just like a Jesus Christ night light.

I know what the peace-love-dope
hippy-fruitcake burnouts have to say about it:
    It's a rainbow sunshine world, friend.
    Let's all wear polyester hiking boots and sing kumbaya.

That's numbness for you.
Some folks
hurtthemselveshangthemselveshypnosisheroinheartattackhavesexhearvoicesholy
spirithulahoopshandgunshookershangglidehistorychannelhashishhitchhikehomicide.

Yeah, but they work too hard.
Nothing is much easier. Safer. Rot away in my
egg-shaped, safe deposit, home-sweet-hell garbage can,
munch on the decor:
melted ice cream, cardboard, coffee grounds, old socks, chicken bones, junk mail,

defective babies
                                                                       little darlin'
Go away.
                                                                       It's all right
I don't care what feels better.

But some cursed thing
always gives me a twist
—ready or not—
like every time before.

                                                                       It's all right

Wind the mechanism.
Throw the switch.

                                                                       I am in control.

We have liftoff.
A bullet-proof sunbeam turbotrain superbolt.
Yes, of course that makes sense.


Now cue the Beatles.