Follicle rotation, current status

when hairs on my head begin to shift in breeze, gray at the temples, contract with each other to feign subsistence articulation beyond thirteen reaches of gravity, value thousands of revolutionary treatises posted on hundreds of telephone poles in several western cities, calibrate when, how and why passionate birds will engender themselves toward diving reaches as worms struggle to rebury themselves along perfectly rendered edges of suburban lawns, choke up as enzio pinza sings "some enchanted evening" on the big screen south pacific with chorus, palms, military reconginicances, graphic lines of work, duty-bound nurses and wounded airmen bleeding off at the edges, pounce on teddy bear in fear as ominous chapters of jane eyre advance that unavoidable moment of crisis when the girl downstairs meets the crazy lady in the attic, beat their drums and trill their whistles to that unfalteringly brilliant and bouncy tune by v carhart titled "we're in love", when and if they thin, tatter, go for broke, vainly watch themselves in the mirror, beg for a clip, dash toward unreachable edges of floor on the bathroom tile, then shall i confiscate my obligation to write down what corresponding letters and words have dumped into the brain they decorate from whosoever left me here in pajama-land, asking only for a workman's wages.