Why’s everyone dressed
for their funeral, playing
at stage hand screwing
their smoke through the
drooling duvytene leg of a
crouching god stuck laying
no more than a hard-
ly rotten and wall-
owed-out egg—the
show must go
as the body goes,
as the swaddling rots
or clots, made one with the
flesh or those sentiments
flesh is obsessed with—tides
shall rise and writhe and falter and
fall. See the horseshoe crab
with his tail lolled, blue
as the blue-blooded
banes bent strangling
Gaia for something
greener even—a
child unwinds from the ether a
flapping contraption scudding
Lake Michigan clean, as Buraku-
min scientists smile at germs seen
suckling swollen
plastics back into
less than the
deaths they were
humbly or clumsily
wrought from. Where’s
the applause—I just saw
Amy Goodman, playing
at Santa Claus, airing
the coal-clotted faults of men,
while I tie tails of dough, man-
ifesting a festering, old, and
low ouroboros in soft-baked
Jewish pretzels. I must think,
ulcerous holes abound-
ing in honeycomb, what of the
dulling decay, the dumpster
fire, the thrashing quay, the
mill stone hanged all alba-
tross soft and doddering
under the chin of an
adamite tinsmith; must think
some shade more than diaphonous
grey or black cracks hacking up
out of the holy and roiling
quantum foam, must see
a bit more than a hole
in the heart of bagel,
rolled and boiled and baked—
some sweet little frame for all
of that sluthering steam escaping
