Friday, August 10, 2012



Did I ever truly subsist
prodding thought-clouds
with numinous poesy, seaming
an invented Quetzalcoatl feathering
elemental shitloads of primeval scat
over a forsaken land
mass of which I crowned myself queen,
or thought I did, acting
like an avant-garde poesiest
(who will take your 1-800 call
[day or night]
giving you nonsense
a limerick for any occasion,
[fair and stormy] just
like beautiful Miss Cleo
looking through her Hubble Telescope
for a more exact reading of
what’s about to happen,
knowing the apocalypse
in the past tense
like Carafy the Obscure Beloved,
whose alleged ass launched
a thousand revelations)
deep into Pat Boone’s R&B
section adhering to Robert Pinsky,
who danced—“I, too, dislike him,
though I’m not sure why”…?

Am I just your kitty
gone astray
in a raucous heap
of paper bags
in the closet?

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