An old man stretched upon a coach head on a pillow
longing for sleep like a desert for rain.
Intense emotion in his motionless motion.
The jungle trance dance of in-between.
Inchoate leap and whirl of images;
the fading twilight of meaning drains away.
Where does your you're go when you aren't?
When does a bassoon mimic a violin?
There is no poem here; if you seek eye peace begone.
Words fall like leaves between alphabet and syntax.
What looms inside this weave? Language a special doom.
Sheep eat pumpkins but only chickens eat pig shit.
Yapping dogs teach litachoor to deaf idiots.
Ostriches in party hats laugh because they know.
Poetry made in a days; motorcycles jump to conclusions;
the butler in the library with a wrench.
Eye lids flutter is a scene's scene seen.
Let the microphones make it all official.
The old man snores and sighs. He slumbers in
Hell, his furnished room too cramped for a bed.
The quality of mercy is not strained,
but the quality of consciousness is scarred
by chairs asleep on cats and homicidal Dodos
that thrive on the darkness where he unaware dreams.
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