Paisley Go The Royal Pronouns.

Interstate melodrama,
Banal and everyday
Schadenfreude, whose
dress, like a wendigo
of clydesdale shoes,
must pick its scabs
under the nose of gro-
tesquely sartorial otto-
men, whose origins
lay obscured in daggers
of intuitional coffee
brewed like America
under a reflective stone;
Alchemy is an island
we arrive at in the
floating skull of a
mythical bird, our skin
rank with pustules
bearing mishapen rubies.

Yes, Harvard, it is still
possible to write, putting
one letter after another,
reeling up the sleeves
so that the angels in clocks
know how to bleed, caravans
of possible funnels
pour out, and in
from the landscape.

I spot the yellowed, single, tusk,
of a long, dead elephant, displayed
in someone's living room window as
I drive past on 39th avenue.

The Last Paisley.