We bore our gralloched game, and our galloched game bored us.

As part of the neverending meditation,
Part of the question that is a giant himself:
Of what is this house composed of if not of the sun.
-Wallace Stevens, An Ordinary Evening in New Haven



along with the primum frigidum
of whatever passes for their
true Podolian light or

stew piddle adder,
its minus was fatter,
flatter the hookworn questions:

'em what palmula
woulds flote in a gin
where the regular tiles
of ice are built
for any such cowboys inside
its ice pangolin
rodeo head?

a cowboy said
beauty itself

a specie of deformity
and deformity a specie

of beauty, and speciation
somehow the mangling
between the two

betorn by ought
thought's major minor
key, ye constant
kunst ant authority

lay out your worm
upon this anvil of iron
i'll polish this hammer
and make it shine

before the gooey duck
whose cud goes aooga
whose tiki goose whistle
nipples

lead a red cougar of porcu
and pavo
through the replicating
nein

no difference between realism
and abstraction
once an image has left the building
it's just another skeet
wearing a tawny fidel
of palolo with prepuces
ajamble with chattering palpocil