The unit of wine is the cup. Of Love, the unit is the kiss. That’ s here.
In Hell, the units are the gallon and the fuck. In Paradise, the drop and the glance.
Ants are my hero. They debate and obey. They can sit at a table for
Eight hours, drawing. They spot out the under-theorized...
Have some. For they are as abundant here as the flecks of mica in the Iowa night sky.
What are twenty-sided dishes of fancy almonds? What use jewels?
He is Kālidāsa. You are nothing. Or rather, you’ re a tray of stainless steel cones.
Meanwhile, one opens Kumārasambhava to rainbow-colored crystals pointing every which way.
Nice try. You’ re a tank-builder but you refuse to build tanks. And so now you are to be watched over
By three heckling birds, evilly named, discomfiting to children.
¡ Fijate! you’ re to be watched by three fowl, commonplace in Florida. Even these
Three hearty objectionables: the blue tit, the woodpecker, and the swampcunt.
I’ m one to talk. I’ m so twisted up, my only hope is Salena. My physical therapist,
With the eyes of Athena, and the hands of a destroying eagle.