the bathymetric surveys are complete, the pressure
reader says to please plant a hundred spuds into
R&L temples; this is the epi(gr)(t)aph of an insane person; I’m well aware
it’s just that Woody Allen and Phil Lesh are at opposite ends of the tightrope
in dinky mankinis singing Andrea Bocelli in round,
overwrought and underwrought & caught
assright on the tightrope—
I am the effulgent tidying of hairpins on your Victorian Ghost
princely constellations of nectarines
I want to pick every last one.
to the Bank!
where was I—
somewhere on Henry Street, wearing pants, about to deposit a
rent check in good faith, in crisp weather, for account number
ending in: Current Location: adrift:
off-course, apostasy, hazy-eyed ration kids, Sundays without Licorice!
the small king Rolfe knifing pomegranates in the bath, sequestering rubies,
sugarplum tangelos, perched in the lithosphere, preening brain fibers,
or nectarines! or Flight Alerts,
for the Archibalds,
or bacon-skinned archipelagos vacationing to Middle Earth,
in broad-brimmed hats, V-flights & sonar,
aquatic jungles and “pop turtles” plucked from thistles in
very dangerous seas, rife with seismic thrush! and on land, the ice squawks,
of a thousand angry puffins bearing presidential faces incanting, “Rushmore
in the flesh! Rushmore for the beak!”–their edict. Bombasts. Snaffoons. A real pigeon,
then a subterranean rumble. a brown pebble dislodged from my shoe.
a cat popped off that fence.
and fence, fence?
point A to B, fence. to:
account number ending in 00925.
I’m at the bank now
and a problem told me it just wants a hug.