Pickup Poem Day 13

Fizzy Drink Machine

Some places they pray

for rain. Within my mouth

stillness begins

to nauseate, a flabby,

static rosary on tongue,

quenching another minute

in the fire. Since I must

agitate, today I'll trap and swallow

1,000,000 refugee souls,

mid-rapture. I take it plain

and loud, an old comedian's

charge, dancing like blood

of a diver who rose

too quickly. They say the static 

between channels

is the surf of the Big

Bang, the first mistake,

apology pending--each

seltzer sip should possess

that hiss, a cocaine tickle.

a little more settling.