love is the crustacean
who remains after the moon
has pulled away the waters of infatuation

Wisdom carved in stone
is lost / what we know we know
under an accumulation of moss

Give a man a book,
He'll burn it for a day.
Give a man a typewriter:
His mind will burn forever.

an idea blows
across a global garden
cities shake like leaves

Despite all my rage
I am still just four minutes
of silence
                          —John Cage

/1975/ My mother died,
And forever cold she burned: cremated
No ceremony, no final goodbye,
Her will leaving me uncompensated.
Alone but for her ashes in the urn,
Which sometimes buzzed like bees and wheezed like breath,
I kept it shut until the day I learned,
That she would be my burden even after death.
Now every day I lift that hideous lid,
Remove the tiny skeleton within,
And place screeching in its awful stead,
Held by the tail, still in its fleshy skin,
A freshly caught rat / Hungry ash covers,
The dead too devour their living lovers.

See simmering vats
of shoulders, elbows and knees,
A banner reads:
"Welcome to the joint stock company!"
A mule may melt your heart,
but the cartel will dissolve your family.