Pressure Drop

Cocksure certainty is not him but
silly certitude is;
dots dissolve,
a diaspora lengua,
then nerves nab him,
strap him in,
and take him for a ride.

He is still cocksure,
the bravado of sperm and resiliency of
youth, grinning and growling,
about the social gravy which boiled down and
caused him to drop in the first place.

There he sits, catatonic.
His girlfriend strokes her
long braids with shivering
fingers.

"Fuck - he's out of it", I hear,
but he knows that "in" & "out" is
something you can fake-
a false compassion or the
tension of orgasm -
and mats the grass with his backside
as the world wings by.

With great love we look at his
half-mast eyes and sigh:
who's carrying him?
someone blubbers and,
suddenly,
he's up,
on his feet,
conjuring chaos,
and the world's rhythm is his:
now spitting invective dragon-like,
now claiming spiders have infiltrated
the grass,
leaping,
spinning,
doing kung-fu
as a maniacal mime might,
and our group bonds behind
him, this
watchable winning wind-up
doll . . . just turn the crank and
watch
him
go