Saturday, April 02, 2011


A fort- and gratuitous rhyme is as cool
as a word with two disparate etymologies.
There are no accidents,
it has been claimed,
but of course there are.

Still, having risen, once, from a workday
as a ghost
is worth considering.
Having wafted, whiffed, waffled, even.
A house of toast is a house of waffles, no ?

A joke about breakfast,
a Eucharist; fey, vaudevillian,
ursa saltatrix --
enough modes to fill a drawer,
a glory hole.

Is a ghost a volume
or a membrane ?

My innards seem
impossibly distant.
Do yours ?

That doxy, tarted up,
erect as can be,
stone tabloids in hand
(delivered, it is claimed,
from evil)
discourses upon (upon) mountains,
the named ones, not the green ones
not the walking ones

That doxy, tarted up --
no, wait !

This is a revival !
Come, brothers and uncles,
come under the porcine tentaculum,
where vox ______ and vox _______

in ways that are scandalous
but delicious

and everything above the eyebrows
sings in abject joy
of something misremembered

and malodorous.

(Everything tastes better in sans serif. Don't you agree ?)

The larger the book, the more useful it is
as a weapon.

Inscribed in rubric-red on the frontispiece,
and signed by the obstinate nihilist,

it transforms a collect into
a collector's item,

igneous, Mosaic, and ripe for resale.


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