Synchronizität

I was complaining to the ants about the various birds flocking
Mad and backwards over and across the pinwheels of my lawn
As well about my neighbor who, straight from the yellow pages
Of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, was beginning to drag his dusty broom
Of magic and circle my house. As I said I was complaining to the ants
About it all just being impossible–the various birds! You know,
Flocking mad and dark and backwards, disrupting the nature of
My beautiful pinwheels. Then, of course, my neighbor, let’s not forget
(fucking Dracula) how he still remained with his broom of magic,
Circling my house. It should be made known, here, at this very
Stupid point, that a Zeppelin from the leaden days of Count Ferdinand
Would announce itself out of the clear blue sky, but just to toss
And hang above my chimney like some outdated alien craft,
Dropping a picnic basket, which probably some moron mis-
calculated for ballast. Nonetheless, the picnic basket would drop
And just to leave this vast hole in the ceiling of my house!–
As if a meteor had struck, its contents (forks, knives, napkins,
Even the broken pieces to a clock) crashing on the sofa
Where I had left, beyond all reason, my precious set of plastic dinosaurs
For Jesus Christ!, and so now, today I’m stuck in Utah, complaining
To the ants about the various birds flocking mad and dark,
Rabid and backwards, over and across the precious pinwheels
Of my lawn–that while my head tosses back and forth on a spring,
Talking to these stupid ants who have nothing to say. Nothing at all.