Ammonium Neon Nation

Ammonium Neon Nation

A design to fit in.

by Hart Heiden

A good amount of you will suddenly become lost in translation. That’s funny because I thought I bridged the ammonium-neon nation.  Demographics if not for separations of generational gender gaps it’s, tabulation map kits; nobody knows what the hell I’m talking about just like the symphonic cacophony syncopated rhythm of Taps fits. I colored the school. Commiserated on campaigns layered by abandoned metallic stairwell scraps from all my mental deliberations of what you think I’m gonna do? I sit and think of all the time weathered and wasted by what truly matters. Words scratched onto cardboard shields catching windy paraphrases against cold, copied collaborators who continue to use up my valuable time effortlessly. Maybe I could set up a better value system with incurred distinctions of patterns carried over throughout corporate trials and tribulations tested by celebrities and doused over certain extreme compromised identities and rusty refrigerators. Babe? We’ve got to get that fixed. No one else can see how much it bothers me. Ironically because I leave my underwear on the floor sometimes and I still forget to rewind the tape-deck playing off of the VCR.

Sea shore I address the entire nation when it’s worthy. More specifically I like to ostracize and keep myself segregated in order to keep away and weed out my own impenetrable penetration.  Waive my rights over to a flag—my hand gestured sovereign nation. Mine is better than yours?  Right. That’s what I forgot about: the instant gratification. I evolve dissemination.  Distribution earlobes of a lost trotter globe soul caught by publisher’s environmental borderlines making their distinct tracks through governmentally implemented parachutes that push around attention spans like shuttled identities across a large spun-out radius of historically insignificant indentured servitude.  Willful connections captivated by their self-enamored torture and only proud to be not as grounded or significantly regarded as slaves anymore in their alleged compromised identification. It’s the propagation of a contingency clause. A tendency to lie down unencumbered by a heroic first-responder to a failed embolic mechanism.  Let’s propagate interest with continued collisions and lesser divisions in spite of our remembrance of a single, gold bravado strand landing on the pillow case last year. This isn’t mine. The implementation of automated sinks makes tripping over convenience to our lives only comparable to short-lived colloquialisms. Lest you had something else to do then make some space up for Brinks or take on your medical marmalade scars as an attribute that contributes to share the good news of our own. Life’s endless pasture conflicts with what to re-use and isn’t it incredible that I exist in this zen-like moment? Matter of fact if you predict your battery acid situation was front fender capped on low, but then put off the high beams to catch you paralyzed in the dark by the light that could easily blind you, then categorically you could conquest toward deep form molding stations into group folded prostrations and then maybe there’s a podcast dinner lined up for alcoholics who don’t feel so ashamed for their own program-driven, addictive tendencies.  I become open for all of your collections of used shoes. Laces tied up too. No tread, no worries cause this is you. It’s about to get serious if you look within at all you do. And if you could champion the right poetic perspective perhaps you can paraphrase what I am about to share with you right now that some might even think of how grown-up life has made us in this lifetime based from the information we have been able to consume.