Habits come first and their ensuing sorrows
are gospel. The gandy dancer was someone
who serviced railroad tracks, Native Dancer
a horse. Pathological flights negotiate night.
Count the fingers on both hands then forget
about them. Remit pain to a drafty dungeon.
Fixed atop a tall Ferris wheel the mongoose
looks down on diminished Earth with gasps.
Fulminate over fog that obscures. Delegate
first dibs on death. Limit spies of every type.
Initially the Indian was entirely anonymous.
Regurgitate bourgeoise art. Emancipate eyes.
You can rub hatred out with a hollow eraser.
Elevate washerwomen and admonish cultists.
Many slain martyrs in Limbo struggle among
countless lost souls, tripping through jungles
where giant centipedes riot and time expires.
Howl as though a werewolf stalks your past.
Dig deeper and relegate static thought to rust.
Disavow rules that rankle the spine. Observe
stereoscopic whirligigs replacing mountains.
While on a subway see your watch spin in
retrograde. Debunk edicts. Demolish blab.
Some people can only explain while others
continually learn, those who ultimately win.
Shield no augur in whose belief you would
trade for a glass of nitro during a hurricane.
Varnish all truth. Babies born subsequent to
the mass extinction reared on anachronisms.
Slowly comes a lull in flummoxing signals
from Valhalla. Child of Nature, the genesis
of weird sizes and odd shapes, astrological
source and impulse of our wildest fantasies,
won’t you please for once show your face?
Divestiture in vice is most likely supposing
the path to home traverses limitlessly dank
caverns. Misappropriated manuscripts are
left unsold on moldy racks in the hard rain.
Avoid psychoanalyzing bold lies at all cost.
Immerse old flesh in vats of lye. Stay brave
or superstition may well creep in, it being
a deterrent to sentiments otherwise divine.