Cut outs of printed numbers, surgical

finesses--scotch taped all over a wall.

The feeding schedule of the energy that

arranged them--their repetitive valuation

of motions.

A Dada poem about number theory,

Hugo Ball not by name.

A signifying wall of superficial blemishes,

dyed by the aura of its occupant, the

open-zero resilience of a wall.

A Turin-like flash treatment, that keeps

it from dilapidation.

A numbingly drafty room, a man in a

mink fur coat--smelling of frictional

accounts.

Listens to a storm in parts, between radio

stations--the relevant monster of the

twentieth century.

The Olay of a blowing curtain, thousands

of miles away--its pending atmosphere.

He looks a little like himself, a little like

the people that perceive him--& a lot like

the current atmosphere.

As he wipes the shiny germs of knife on

his fur coat--then slices into a tomato.

An infernal balance of membranous pulp,

a twin theory.