COR CAROLI



The worst of it is a waning

cloud of monsters (pink locusts)



that chip away at



the tensile strength of

daylight's anchors.



Perhaps there's something to be said

here after all.



What things occur on 

the milky stage of a room? This is all

the province of the drooling

envelopes of death--



Still she folds 

around him like an origami

box.



Still less time for speaking

at the toes 

of the century.  Its

kick, kick, turn:



I in the warm globe 

of I's falsified identities.

All the braided towers

& their sequined wrestling

masks look down on

this ancestral Twister.



The sweeping glee

of the kliegs, wry irony

expelled from the exposition.



	You seekers &

	dreamers, my 

	flaxen pedestrians



huddle 'round the

touch-pads,



a kind of gooey equity

goes right for a motherfucker's eyes.



Scalpel, chisel,

get this parser exhumed.



The lonely king, the goofy

	scepter



heard the sirens

& their phoneme parcels--



All agree this night

is very rich 

& it downsizes me.



	A bible of

barren pharmaceuticals

	& rogue brands.



I will love you

	while the hummers hum

	& the hissers hiss



& there's been biomorphic muck

fecund on the bottom of the ninth

	for years

		now.