Sean Patrick McCall
It will not mean anything to your mother.
Even the most basic assertion:
drums by the fireplace, renunciation,
capitols and their longitudes, a make-
believe graveyard speckles, decomposing
in an obsolete dissolve. Grass tangled
in a single blade of grass, the child-
pulling-daisy-petals decomposes
in the unutterable dissolve. Then the cloud-
like muchroom. Meanwhile, the plumber
smiles having found the ring, stands up
and turns the colors of stars. A make-
believe fate in a make-believe, paranoid
campaign. Several ages ago, campaigns
were given exclusively city-names, date-
names, the lion belonged with a sword
and a promise wasn't yet a pen leaking ink.
What really needs recording anyway
except grocery lists, phone numbers,
bank statements, and what makes a Big
Mac but twice as much meat as the original,
better laxatives, indulgent dress codes,
green matchbooks one grabs at the bank
that is next to the bar that is sometimes
empty, sometimes full.
