On passing the lunch line in front of Holy Apostle’s on 9th Avenue I heard someone in line ask T.S. Eliot “What are the roots that clutch …” There he stood, sandwiched between a spindly boy wearing two pairs of pants and two lipsticked ladies sharing three violet wool gloves. The once handsome poet rolled(…)

a rare rare fiddle little sparks swarm up another test another tiny moment fan fan red soup in the gray plate green and cold laugh or die without a nose black cat following the gray cat   simply hours had three times

red squirrel leap mostly it we owned a broom deep beyond deep trains and buttered toast sitting on the ace on second Thursday’s long calm walks seem to work oh map and web

a rich Jew banker the Baron knows nothing the lover like the husband love costs 30,000 Francs a year between old rips like us hard up is the word good God what her blue room three men named Fisher excess and pleasure fear of their betters

he puddled the city only to decode codes and ciphers the code is changed Channel could so watertight living on milk and olive oil  

colors soon faded tied with red tape has lost its key manner of irritable superiority mimic the dusk the mud bank that passed curt once again her, the child bride neither apology nor pride a water less mountain murdered spoils plum wine, mulberry and pomegranate study the clues enclosed blue storm clouds satisfied and certain

84,000 vaginas the urge to fast-forward riot and pillage her own rules   uncle’s shadow from one vagina in navy blue ether started with salt a quick jink   in uncle’s place truthful to the point of mania   infestations of books whip over and over and over