"Fake Holocaust Wolf Memoir" (Pessoa XXIV.)

Lozenge melted into subtle stars
drawn up into a syringe, up and away--
these things the organs remember, in their jars.

Thoobing waialand the last good day
will leave no trail.
Grasping with gnarled hands at the mad past
a sorry xerox, grainy, gray and pale,
not much to take with you across that vast
Plutonian taiga, terrible to reach.

Lozenge again to dull the greasy after.
Desert under in then; end bleed; speech
mutiny, and silence barks death's laughter.
Gone on before us is the only one who knows,
nor is there compass where this needle shows.


Astonishment: the Wolfgang Puck vending machine (in the basement of SMU's Fondren library) has the first automatic coffee i have ever tasted, that's drinkable.