Freewriting, then, around some keywords: [sigh]

The fusion juice contusion
slams it together in song and inclusion
we join our hands in stark confusion

Reusing the poverty-stricken vows of
howitzers and butterflies
freebasing the verse reverse
like bass guitars with wings
(the bassist is racist? What the hell does that mean?)
flinging and singing all the while
the collider insiders divide and conquer the
End of the World® –
a wholly owned subsidiary of MemeCo

So I said to Miss Teen Communications
such as, as such, might I infuse your tool box
with a hammer or two?
Oh no, for in the marketplace of ideation
there can be no destructuration
only instructuration
what whimsy that, I said, and
waved Adweek in her face
for emphasis

[breathe]
Keep looping it back to fusion, where the splice is nice
and all are politely textured in the marketeria of ideas
I see clearly, in my leftist of brains
where splice equals fusion free of confusion
where ads meets marketing
where message explodes
in a tiny white light of awareness
a laser calling the way to action
to response
to reaction
to preaction
where the broadest of concepts pincushions

the science of the audience
as if Sun-Tzu had composed The Art of More
Deconstruct then reconstruct
beconstruct the nexus of postmodernism and existentialism
– that’s funny – Nextistentialism
or maybe Nexustentialism

This is when all the synapses flared all at once
where Old Ethan crossed over
Advertising is Poetry
Marketing is Architecture – ah yes, Divine Marketecture
Public Relations the most intimate of relations
a reproduction of preproduction of me-reduction
a repo-suction of creativity through the skull of accountability
we measure because we have to
we treasure because have to
we pleasure because the infusion of insight
sets aright that which had been
sacrileged on the
altar of Commerce

All markets are One
Namaste – I worship the segmentation in all things
we are divinities in the bazaar of thinkforward
I sell therefore I am
sweet commodity of human oddity
sacred remix
when I am empty I reach out and retouch you

And we are published
our love the more perfecting for its salability
the transaction gains traction
in the marketplace of romantic love
that most clever of human innovations – the de-mestication of animal heat
my creative faculty is on fire for you
as would be any faculty charged with the transmission of intuition

Where have you been, little Flame?
All these lonely months I called to you
called your name as I would a song
I have been stripped of context
now a simple creature of mercantilism
trading on my record of
driving value for the collective customercantile
exchange of surface pleasantry

Where have you been, Little Flame?
the arc-well of my nameless soul
the light too bright to watch directly
my flight from the smallest room in the
deepest basement of my darkest hopes and dreams
where are you now, Little Flame?
Are you truly alive in the phoenix of my stained, twisted fingers,
alive in the generative sense, burning new pathways from the
hiding seat of invention to the dead machine on the desk before me?
Have you found freedom, impassioned freedom in the strict madness
the tight folds of our prescription deception
the reception of inception of conception of abnegation

Have you flown the coop, Little Flame?
Or are those invoices wings
that once danced like ice on the pond behind our house
are we divided against myself
our art begging at the door of charity
its bolts and steel bands as stern as the face of
Our Broken Lady of the Ladle

I must envision an end to my assignation
must return, like a sacred hoop to the divine headwater
integrate with the v2.4 before me
must iterate, ingenerate, deconsecrate
some ignition for the science of awareness

She is a siren on the rocks
She will pay me