All else is forgotten

No Cake For Us, Thank You

No mere mortal
will ever force
his cake upon me,

or my comrades-in-art,
Mr. Polar and Mr. Quicksauce.

The cake is not for us,
and it is not ours for the baking.

A cake is the mortal man's
best horse, and our worst
lemur.

Spurnings of Nutmeg

Night is
of the fruit pie.

Tom Cruise
drops his pants,
howls at the nutmeg
in his spurning.

I hollow
out the dewdrop
and carve into it
a niche whereby I
might pass the night.

And Charisma Carruthers
a dayplant personality,
wilts in the baggage of
wood floor refinishers and
unfolding card players.

It is amazing how
snurpt the purns can become
when the yight of wacamorni
has set.

16105 B

rocket-propelled confections
of conflagration and detonation
write wisps of white clouds
above borders

davoom

the red glare
the smell of burning flesh
like holiday barbecue

technology empowers
certain animals, specifically,
the ones who find no better use
for an olive branch in fruit
than to beat each other
over the head

All Else is Forgotten

16105 A

The time of
night is clear.

It is the time of
becoming all things
and maintaining the
status of nothingness.

In the swing of moonliness,
I leap from the night
of mankind and
utter foul-mouthed phrases
at your lack of
unintelligible
squabbling.

If ever cities fall
while you are still
able to see,
you will be surprised
at your own longevity.

17b

From There To Here

SHUSHU and SWISH-PLOP
go the skirts of
Panamanian street vendors.

Details lost in mayhem
and thoughtless repetition

Scratch-plunk of the spade
in sandy earth
gold bars in dreams buried
stolen
hopping fences like cracks
in the sidewalk

And somewhere,
in the wool sweaters
of Ohio,
a melting pot
gets the girls stoned.

Speaker. Triangulation.
Fist soft against brick.