rap rhythm, the cadences of Yeats,
the crabby Gothic symmetries of sonnets--
To me it's all just texture.
I grow concretions,
Mud-glue my pearls whether friend or faux.
Declare completion,
When no new irritant yells "Me too!"
My life's in the word or line,
Nestled in the fine details:
Raindrop-lenses holographing whales.
No girderbones, no plan. No man.
We build the shapes we know.
But who are "we"...?
A multiple some of my
Therapists say.
Chaos Congress!
I dream I'm in that hall:
A spheric cathedral,
Dodecahedral.
Dissenting Representatives all
Hang like honey ants,
Shout from the facets,
Protecting their fat-ass
Factional assets.
O-mouths blare,
A sound-surround,
As in the best of theaters:
Madness Multiplex!
The Speaker's flown,
The holy podium vacant,
Consensus-point empty.
O Capitol,
O hollow skull...
Eye have no single I to see.
Just hollow crystaleyes of
Some terrible humming bee.
Any surprise my art grows
Only fractal structure?
To me, and me, and me and me and me,
Your esthetic unity
Is just mad Dr. Sanity's
Illegible signature.
Your, your, your, your
Linear signature.