The Mind of Microfilm Projectors

under my skull,

there is a hum coming from microfilm projectors,
lying at the back of my geranium potted cranium,
displaying images from the dusty lens of a bubble-wrapped, ailing apparatus, as

one might witness:

a sea of confetti bursting from the tiny mouths of purring, calico cats,
as open caskets bellow words of consternation, there's a picture of me, coffee in hand, with
microphones, chalkboards, European post cards, another day in the coin-op laundry mat,
brilliant neon colors flash to beats that carry rhythms of the urban drive and demand,
in the Morocco sands
with a gem in his hand,

then fog is in my windows and shadow puppets start to tango to the final dance of the dead,
watch as Lee then gives the signal and they all march down the middle to the drums of the vain, cue
shaded hues, gym clothes, exaggerated metal pose, we were dizzy from the scent of fresh bakery bread,
vomit red and bubbling, and the patient goes on mumbling about his love for Petty's songs and refrains,

shoes all muddied and stained,
the lasting image of him lying there all peaceful without any pain
all free, six feet under

under my skull,

there is a windmill warranting another rotation,
there is a flask of knowledge draining itself without an explanation,
there is a projector beaming the final scene of my imagination
spliced, dizzying, and ominous
and it dims completely
until black