before i devise a way to recapture
the solemnity of the dead tree,
i must capitulate to the gas-chamber guru
and its solvent romance.
not easily swayed, the past reminisces
of itself in chunks of butter,
brought to fruition by the
uselessness of plain milk.
i think you might even know
the contents of my extents, but
an honest barber is a dead statistician is a
fed laboratory mouserat.
asides aside, climb our tree.
on its branches dangle star-spangled leaves.
caressed by the soft legs of innocuous
insects and bugged thrusts of the southern wind,
we grow groveling walnuts,
full of trees.
early '99
(
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