I can’t recommend writing
letters to gods olden or
now—they’re all traitors
at some point, serfdom
us their garbled txts via rep, via courtier copywriter
I didn’t mean
architect sophistry supercomputer skyrocket
*authority, in obstructions.
Lab coats spook me with their pen-headed hedges,
We are held together by a line
of discs. Filled like a donut,
doctor said. Id est,
sacs of sweet & jam
waiting to burst.
I dislike being seen through.
Time calls Place, who pretends not to be there,
doesn’t pick up, dials Time
back & leaves a joke message about being
trapped in elevators, batteries
dying— static something static —
& every other
what? I can’t here.
some billets-doux wrapped in paper.
One like a rope
from the animal’s throat.
One like a fist
from its heart.
The old butchers insist on truths, lest there be mis sed conceptions:
Both fare but old-fashioned.
Frequently, they come “connected”—
the “heart” in the “throat,” the “fist” “wrapped” with “rope.”
The “heart” favored, so
Like sweet little breads, our delicacies, too,
gradually disappear after turned out to grass. So let us
nod to one another
(When lonely, I fill up
with souvenirs, trombones.
My fist can hold 10,000 balloons.)
It seems there is no rest.
I download & hide
in a “cloud.”
I split the giant.
What does a lamp do in the dark?
Because the black bulb does not look right to live in.
Rise. In place of remembrance,
be “productive.” Divide. Fill, fill—
fill the contract.
Stuff the emperors with donkeys.
Slap little penguins in the katy
the great the neat the near the best
the nasty the jay
the * * * * *
Punch in. Log in. Do not forget to save,
post. Transfer. Other things
remain classified, too powerful to look in the face.
Emotion. Spring. Daffodils. Stillness. Dust.