as I conflate the Theory of Me
I slumber in bins and roast my ingots in foil and ambergris.
I strum violas out of tune to embark upon the lost waves
of my errant Muse. I sedate the bleakery
of my human malaise
with a jolt of  “ run of the mill meandering “.
as uncautious as a knave at Court
when the King sleeps and the Jester
cavorts.

I sneak inside my pollution and render the fat of the lamb
as an offering to a clean thought. I go where my ghost prayers
still believe in atoms and atone for my prodigal
calliopes. I Muse against the world that dismals the darling accolades
of Our disquieted Joy Speck. I foam at the mouth of the Ganges
like a Mad Spartan. Humming the Unusual departures
of our mundane perpetual. Our fleet roots to a spot of bother-
on the hem of Spheres, where no Music
is Undone for lack of Trying
to Compose It.

Thunder is how Yellow speaks to Red furies -
dancing in noncanonical Stories
that collapse to a Star
You’ve Chosen.

and all the flamingoes
stop where the sky
UnOpens.

fin.