Sunday, September 26, 2004

"What's Going on Here?"

Shake it like an alien autopsy Polaroid.
Amid the glare and talking to the sea
I dreamed I had invented you, and when I awoke
The porter pointed up beyond the door.
I am of very fond bananas.
They from the dim inane and vague opaque
Sell droshky lite and droshky fake
Or some aught-else whose being-unknown doth rot
And Minutemen, they say, is what we are.

9 26 04 (?)

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