Grip to Ground Connector

Geometry of the indolent, the shirkers,

              the holstered ratchet and Metallica T,

the rigger in cycling gloves, the paid-up member,

              the daily, the skinhead reading García

Márquez, the hungover biochemist hoarding

              three treatments at mom’s, the paroled,

the stargazer, the undercover cop, the capoeira

              brown belt who went down on Jolie,

C-clamp jockeys, the naphthalene moon-wranglers,

              the diabetic gamers, the art historians,

the redeployed craft services chef, the butch

              lesbian boxers, the acned, the hyper,

the wrong-channel merchant, the father of four,

              the speed-dealing Rhodes Scholar,

fantasy novelists chewing holes in their cheeks,

              colorists, arborists, entomologists,

the Benedictine novice quoting  Jay-Z

              over lunch, the orphaned and over-sexed,

Trotskyists glaring at cherry tomatoes,

              epileptics, onanists, some dude with a recipe

for killer grilled cheese, bipeds, bisexuals,

              brown baggers, gymnasts, monarchists,

pedophiles, and originalists. We all just sat there—

              one, two stacked, one flat one upended,

three if in truck after wrap—while the films of our

              deaths got made under budget.