I’ve seen genius so fixed on itself
as to be monkeys, squealing
wicked-itchy
watching a record whirl
in the same drugged circle
33 and a 1/3—circa 1969

This—their eternal brilliant conclusion
their e=mc2
This—their Final Solution
their inner-spring
Their convoluted complexity
as the hands of their clocks
fly off, striking me in the face

Alas!
—the equation that would solve
the mystery of whistling “Dixie”
that would feed the dogs
and “seize the day”!

This penetrated groove
This—track, eternally diminishing
toward a point on a label
at which two ***** intersect

and then...
...cease to be....