I resent any alteration, however minor, to the fortress of my routine. My routine is a raft on rough seas, forever in danger of capsizing. If i have any self besides the patterns i create, i do not know of it.


"Stupid Foods"

1.
Storms from here on out;
insolent pedestrians,
head-bobbing pigeons

All i wanted was respect
in the language underground

2.
cheaply made
out of expensive materials
the rain thrown
against my small curved glass
wandering

bishops lift
a dark turquoise oblong
wheel in the
sky keeps on turning
I don't know

3.
the desire of the poem for silence
Shinar, font of sussurations

with gummi shoggoths
looming through the fog

6-car pileup

transient earache
running on square root of negative
one

against the sterving tide

4.
my round trip tickets
to terrorist training camp


Screaming baby as music thread. (I envisioned this sort of software back in the late 70's, around the time of ORG/N/ISM...but my idea was singing lawn mowers.)


Cranch from the past.