wail a syllable
Benjamin Franklin’s illegitimate son’s
illegitimate son was his secretary
mirrors are everywhere and at odd angles so as to
obscure or multiply all who may enter
still
sleep standing like a horse
mirrors laugh with food in their mouths
so unbelievable it must be true
like god yclept God
I have entered the empty story
⥈⥈
I once stepped in front of a set of mirrors faced in such
a way as to cause an infinity loop, except the mirrors
were cracked it appeared I’d be Cubist forever,
or at least any army of a broken self
sleep has its own excuses
(aside)
like those blackbirds that followed the
movements of my eyes as if they were
parallel irises aiming to return home
but what is it?
but what is this?
oh, sadness!
a dream remade
as a broken elegy
melodious but dull
who knew
the poem can be both eternal and forgotten
help me
⥈⥈
lawnmowers drop from the sky
at some point we’ve got to stop calling it God
gin & teutonic
heavens, jocund and sad
not unlike Tristan Tzara’s cut-up method the poem
comes from somewhere
for some the news for me my brain
like beneficial fumes
all real epics have a hippogriff, so here’s
a hippogriff
⥈⥈
I like to practice solitaire before I play it
I have no idea what you are reading now,
but i love it
like a lunar caesura
boredom will become extinct
with wanton calmness
my observations while unconscious
sang the gravelly-voiced boys’ choir
the King’s bass piccolos struggle to harmonize
with the midgets
and the etceteras
⥈⥈
I wish I was the golden ring around a compass
perhaps become a venus flytrap, perhaps don’t
things open
the penultimate last supper was worse
has Plato even seen a cave?
this is reading my mind
and water charged by the drop
an Earth tattooed on a beer gut
the Philippines left off
pause anon?
non
a voice cries out, but it cries in too (in two)
fromage from age
but then
the stories bind them
(ok that’s the one)