The Elucidating Poem of Our Time

I'm sorry, too, about
how it had to become
the story of OUR cult
of personality, and the
way that Cadmium must
direct the red road,
reading the gelatin was
of donkey skin and musk.

I'm sorry about.
All of this.

This is just like that
story about how Tien-Lcheu
would sneak back into the house
after smoking, house-pants,
house-pants-naked, only, to find
a tiny turtle on his pillow,
then enter into a reverie in which
he imagined things like
shadow mantas flowing vertically,
flowing diagonally, and living
on the inner surface of a
vast smooth cavern of glass,
a wide lotus forehead
would look tiny upon
the history of pine,
and pining.

"African wild ass skeletons
exhibit a range of osteopathologies
consistent with load carrying."

"Completely anonymous specimens
reveal heretofore unknown aspects
crucial to various forms of
understanding the history
of the donkey."

This was the kind of sentence
the young man would find just
hanging around the old woman's
mezzanine, where, on the walls,
a multitude of Japanese fans
she claimed she painted herself,
and old lace, bronzes, and plaster
casts of the old lady, from
bygone days.

Often, she would sing, and
what an odd, dissonant thing
it was, like Minerva punishing
Arachne.

But what she would never admit,
was that our intentions, are
intrinsically intentional, but
our utterances, writings and
pictures, are physical phenomenon,

like famished teeth
dragging the smoke
to a bald glade:

a definition of farce.

The Winter slowly begins
in more old gooey quotes.

"If the pipe is as good,
as it is long, it will be
the Phoenix of pipes;
I'm going to try to learn
to smoke it."