Monday, February 27, 2012


The Real Housewives of Atlantis

Metus or Phystic
Both significantly thoughtless
Tattooed by the forces
Of liquid green magnets

In all these amorphous blob-like rooms
There is a yellow color
And an odor of sweetness
And certain beings enter
Bringing with them cascades of objects
Arranged in ordered but fluid confederation..

Are they tiny platinum ingots?
Are they lottery ingots?

J.J. Boissard hosts the show,
And each week he begins in the nude
Except for the presence of an Etruscan cowboy hat.

He stands between two enormous urns
Like eyeballs facing the heavens
And on their sides are written the words, one word
On each urn: KAKON, and NOVAK,
And there is also a gorgon’s eye on each.

In the distance is a little village,
But we are in a peach orchard.

The show always begins rather arbitrarily.
We are joyous, and all riding enormous luminous blue eels
In the great chthonic depths of the ocean,
And the deeper we go, the more the depths
Become suffused with an inky periwinkle light,
And we ride on to the source, a cool, magnificent
Undersea sun of analogium.

The Real Housewives of Atlantis join us there, but they only have a single husband,
Sad old Thomas Macho dressed up like Poseidon, his quill pen
Like a milky shadow cast on the face of a transparent cherub bubble.

Thomas Macho says,

Welcome to the holy;
For Est
For Infans
For Anfons spricht in actu

(his elbows each are mermaid caves)

Echoing the usual domestic setting.

A clutch of lovely housewives hanging out
Near the entrance of a cave, over which reads


platinum ingots hover in ordered yet loosely
polarizable conferderation

Having no work to do is not the nobject.
Making work where none exists is not the nobject.

To the husbandry of houses: