Handsomely liquefied orris v. a mug of russet. Indians
rise into a balcony with a commanding view of the beatific.
Torsion, stolid, near third-person singular-present of reify
as, say, a scent of scrub pine and salt water is always about
something else. Someone who planted trees in path/ leaves
in a vast dawn. If not for morning/ you’d fall to your knees.
Composition-wood shores the shoals beyond floorboards.
Chuang Tzu wraps ‘round the day.  Senses a tinkling piano
in the next arrondissement,  goes coo-coo for cocoa puffs.
Hart/ made of stone. We slather subordination o’er flickers
of impending doom. As one plays keep-away from the Flash,
Carnak, Bruce Lee or Lizabeth Scott, metaphorically speaking.
I’ve often whimpered re asphalt omnipotence. Parking lots,
on verge of lift/ menace hums of wings arghh conversional/
and carapace abundante, un pastorals, jautrs kiršu bomba!
Cranes lift up, hover, harry, hinge skyscrapers, tinge dark side
of lunar-gravity-of-which steadies Blondie, smelling of pine sol,
2 r-r-rapping. Did I mention my gal Sal? Lynn Xu? Tikrit?
Já, já. Path stops, shoots again o’er saline water. Rhonda
Fleming’s nostrils begin to flare. Horses snort, rise up like cranes.
Leading to revolution and carnage. Bright/ røde blodbad.
Mistah Kurtz? Mistah Kurtz? Mistah Kurtz?