Poem…

One minute's extrusion
and you have a contusion
also known as 
poem.
Do not article that.
It likes to stand 
on its own,
titular,
eponymous,
a grouseless meadow
pheasanting with the perfection
of a still-dewy afternoon.
How many decimals
until it's an ellipsis? 
Be more specific.
How many dots
until it's an impression.
That's the thing,
a question
formed as a statement
bouncing like a Jungian ball
from Freud to the end 
of that farce that Keynes kept afloat.
Name droppers are filled 
with uneaten medicine.
Shoulda taken it,
mighta lived.
But we were all going to die anyway
and so the fatalists took all the pianos
and ripped out the good keys.
All we are left with:
cliches and idioms,
reruns.
Run it back anyway, Friedrich. 
Your science did us in
with reason,
so many reasons.
Maybe I'll never ride my bicycle
back up that New Jersey hill
into Pennsylvania.
Those states were legends anyway,
anachronistic nations,
holding court for chickadees
until the brown marmorated stinkbugs
ate the final crop of peach.
Damn the tense!
Let the future fly where it wills.
And let this length of will
become the end of a session
the beginning of a blue
screen of death.