yer broke down
wheel; on a wattle,
with gobbled words;
half lit, the foggy
morning ocean,
going . . .
"last inquisition
was at pearl harbor."
. . . coming,
"try and be more
cosmopolitan in
your own mind."
a poetry of madness
that had already ended,
in these past moments;
day after a night at sea . . .
growing on this fish shit;
in the wet sand & moon.
withdrawal from some
perpetual bank
for a natural channel; having
licked mysteries & chewed
one peaceful evening . . . waking,
restless in an isolation of metal,
to remember the shoeless shore; or,
rediscover some emptiness of breakfast.