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In headstand pose I thought you

(though, these days,

thinking of you is ordinary)

likely also invert the world,

the meaningless glass,

opaque and unrational,

in inverting the body,

hoping the unwavering gravity

can re-route the heart's

red harmful freeway

to a reasonable bouquet.

So long have I lain, unable to say.

In my malaise I took your

travel entreaty to sally,

which really tickled me,

and voyaged, Wien, Bremen, Edinburgh,

the lost Melnicki, Philosophy Doctor,

searching futilely

for a sentiment of livery.

Friend, I tremble, unable

to hark with enthusiasm,

and now in the northwest

await aging's insight

but still search incessantly

for Brydum and Bauer,

for Enlightenment,

arithmetic and harmony,

for Josh Fattal's flower.



Last night, I nailed the sun with comical quips, calling that asshole in the sky unworthy of my attention, observing how it, in spite of its superiority and dominion, never comes down in any other manifestation. Some deity, I said, as it set. Andrew was amused. I'd love to have this routine continue, to uphold my promise that the next day, when the flaming fascist in the sky once again arose, I would cease to care; but here, I've been served another scandal yet again, and must now consider that kindness, creativity, and nonviolence are to be my unending beacon, and the blaze above is worthy of my love, perhaps for its steadfast indifference, or that it causes unity of all cells and souls. … the world, the heinous hum of entropy and the torrent of nondemocracy, is a spinning plate... that damnable hand, serving silently such harrowing nerves... I must learn about the birds, unlock the impetus of the earth, colour my comrades with zeal, evoke the passions and determinations that they (undoubtedly!) feel.


Several severs

within my last semesters

have left me ever unlit.

Prolong ontology,

watch webcasts about history,

stew legumes and study

(even though I've left the academy);

that's all that I can make of it.

To brood months with no fruit,

endure Anderson and Kirsten,

I shall not scorn love

but wonder of the world:

citizenry of a polis,

inhabitance of a hairstyle,

Danton's sad direction:

is reason futile?

Can I bend honus

from penwork to opus

even though, después,

each sentence ends with a period?

Meanwhile, watching and awaiting

stiffness and greying,

I'm putting faith in deepening.

Certainly we squander the Earth's energy

if all we have is hoarding and fucking,

working sleeping eating.

But sundering politics,

the tritest entreaty

to pretend to care for one another,

is so far from charity.


The momentary tickling thrill of soda!

Modest pleasure, moderately devoured,

the way one ought to travel,

is not vicious;

but most Americans

(might I amend: humans?)

are repetitively helpless,

resort to the ruse of easy savory,

the cave of private love.

What is the struggle of olive?


between town and titillation,

so, I suppose,

is how we might hatch,

is communal encouragement,

I saw a”

you might like”



there there,

to proclaim what is dear.