In the short term
Our own joy
From loss
As it happens
In this room now
Is our vow
To Eternity’s war-
den to keep going–

We eat even the rind
Of experience
On the black sofa
That puzzles us
No longer

My own section
Of a blockhouse
Is bright, wide
Coming from
Future of past
Moments that
Like dreams
Even chimeras
Suffice for the pay-
check we are grate-
ful to live by
And use when
The covenant’s
Door of stained
Glass spins off
Its axis and from
The logos’ own plate
Bears zypherly
Down on us

There was the quiet time
(Truth) of the rusted
Spring box action-
Figure lunchbox
TV dinner microwave
Of Buzz Lightyear
And sheriff Woodie
Where through peep-
hole the dark one
Like pirate with patch on
Could only spy
On Alice
As with Leida
And the Swan
From some galaxy of Pluto
Far far far far away
Where drum gave no sound

Yes there was a quiet time
Of the xerox nickelodeon
...

That the Cyclops drowned with the dwarves
7 white orcs Donne in by the same Tesla strike
From height of melting glacier, the secret fell

Inside a rotten nutshell to the people of Tlön
And Thoth: I have said things, Kurz und bös,
That orbit: perhaps ‘so fucked up’ as that Ash-

eville princess But more about Hawaii’s beaches
And the somethings that bore me & nursed me–
Some preached Baptism & Fire, others presented

Their license and black cards of entitlement;
A heap of stones they made and made me wait
As greed and dope and glut can be inhibiting

There were some to point out Borges’ collected works,
Making prominent “the verdigris’d and mutilated torso
Of a king.” What I took for something akin to ‘Lionheart’

I’ve got the feeling of flattened sardines
For which a better man would set out
For a bottle of Pepto Bismal

Only to take the oops of a shit
On the sidewalk
Vita Brevis,...

The evening’s snare of drum
Merely were the neighbor-
hood’s gun shots accompanying
The spring of 6x6’s board
Which was a plank for some
Above Maria Hernandez Park
Off Knickerbocker & Starr
Where Dorothy’s tornado
Touched down with a ‘heehaw’
Leaving an unmarked car
On the seesaw The next morning
Terry might have spiked
His alarm clock A late night
Giving to the harsh wine and spliff-
fog of sunrise whereat the sausage
Seller was pinched pushing his push-
cart while whistling to the dogs and birds,
Communicating something like “oh boy!–

Have I got a prize.”

The day’s gray sheet tacked to the green sky
A black sheep remains, floating there
Above Yosemite’s polished dome

The hero must be well-known
Mercury climbs without rope
Through rising nimbus of cloud

As if to perform
A vertical Marathon
Throwing back

To Pheidippides’
Spartan line
From battle

Staked off the east coast of Attica
The rain should fall but doesn’t

  "It is generally inadvisable to eject directly over the area you
                      just bombed."  U.S. Air Force Manual 

What might have sounded
like a fair-ground frog
as it might then have flailed–
ribbit after ribbit, ribbit
after ribbit and then some
to (rather than topple) top out

the soot-velvet, hearthside flue
of Eric Houdini’s ten-gallon hat
which as matter of rumor if not
fact was the mind clearing a leo-
pard-slug of laced angel dust
from the felt-line of its rabid throat.

Meanwhile, memory bowls twenty-thousand leagues
barreling down a waxed passage
of teak-stained oak,
aiming for the spare pin
now framed and standing in
for exclamation mark~ for exclamation mark
highlighting the night I might have couched
beneath an elm bench, having burnt my North Face bivy

some place akin to Fortune trail, in the rambles of Central Park.

Y

That such a vision of guffaw
swerves...

for John Ashbery

They never stop talking about it–
and who can forget the straw-
berry stickup that rigs out

to be pointless if not inapt
to some Hitchcock plot.
Needlessly, very little

or naught fulfills
the American psycho
function in every sole,
unalloyed episode

of The Simpsons.
Homer (/ˈhoʊmər/;
Ancient Greek:

Ὅμηρος, Hómēros)
identic to ‘a hostage,’
purported to stand up
for, well, late-night ‘blind.’

Perhaps in need of ‘companion.’

As with Ray Charles–
another genius
tinkers out a type

of Encyclopedia–
blues, jazz, rhythm
diced, sizzled, stacked
into a peculiar mish-a

mash. To strike, beat; push,
stick, knock, pluck (as in
‘carpe’). ‘til the whole entire

enterprise,

Piggly~Wiggly score clearly whistles
out the still-copper-thumper for moonshine:
as in 'something majestic, of substance.’
Some [sic] idol or ‘thang’ of ‘Say what!–’

For example, one who might cut
her own...

The brainchild of the brainchild
Is too small to deal with–

As with one of those trucker hats
We fit all sizes.

For J0313-1806 to have grown
To this point of reappear,

The black hole would have had to sprout
With a seed of atleast 10,000 solar masses.

What if Johnny Appleseed worked for NASA?
His father, Nathaniel Chapman, fought as minuteman

During the battle of Concord. Concord traces back
To ‘agreement, union’ of a direct collapse scenario?

Democrats and Republicans are shaking hands
Because their tin-heads and hands are cold.

Nonetheless, their merry-go-round is tilting, whirling
Out of control. Coney Island is, in all possible worlds,

Not an island, being filled with corporate carpetbagger trash.
No one has been let on the Parachute Jump in quite some time.

Built in light of 1939–for New York World’s Fair at Flushing Meadows,
Corona Park, riders would be lifted to the top...

Imagine what it must have been like
Coming to this In Hell, and Earth,
And Jerusalem. I am here a decade
After the black grass, the black stars
Of what you thought, the ones dead
Who thought I was their lamb but rose
For the Eagle, the Phoenix, the Scorpion

Imagine what it must have been like
Coming to this In Hell, and Earth,
And Jerusalem. I am here a decade
After the black grass, the black stars
Of what you thought, the ones dead
Who thought I was their lamb but rose
For the Eagle, the Phoenix, their Poison.

Forgive me the rotting joke
Of the chicken
Crossing the road.

That it was listening
To Bach’s last symphony
Pays no mind to me

As I’m staying put
In the (Heehaw)
Nuclear pad guised

As a transitional sandbox
Where I’m reading,
Beyond Good & Evil,

The free spirit
Of Nietzsche–
And quite beyond

A thingamajig care

For King Koopa’s squad
Of reptillian bots
And nano bolts

Still in their own hand-
dug trench
Of gunning for my soul.

It’s out of grabs
And still in tempo
From Dactyl to Spondee–

With the gallop
Of the Lone
Ranger–

Born for danger
With the current
Of the brown river God

Who ever-so-swiftly
You folks offended
And disturbed

For first casting me
By Shanghai
From never-never.

For filching fire from the Swan?
(i.e., I spoke sincerely)
In the face of tyranny

Which hydes beneath the mask
Of Momus~Hey Zeus, get ready
For Thoth’s magic school bus.

Your toys aren’t us.

As to be invisible
The hours escape
Block after block
Of pop-up books
Filled with Ikea
Blu-ray, Hi-def
The high digital
Dog whistle hum
Of Alphabet
Meta, Amazon

They’ve cleared
The rain forest
And fracked
The camel’s hump
To plant the world
In a looped hour-
glass that the Great
Mystery (far out)
Has dealt for me

To smash and punish
Any block of chains
Or bit of torrent
Which might double
The bet of MIK’s tosh
Being surplussed
From the mite-infested

Drains

Now as these water-bugs
Spill and give way from flood–
From this tall rain cloud
That is so far beyond
Compute of the black
Budget of S.‘s five-
hundred gallon thumb

Drive

For which these cow-
ards are so prone
To wink and sink
Their hooklines yet they
Fail to squash our kind
Hearts for their own sick

Thanksgiving joke.