the future of ancient comedy

and glory works the wheel
in giraffe snake combat
what erring hunchbacks cooed
at glib and empty mirrors
and boo

for horse limousine lamps
are yet both mass opiate
correction and opposite these
all is but a lickerish
pastry of tease

teased up form
from wild blank mush
wheezed foam
upon which these gasping napes crunch
and teasy iteratures
again and agap and a gin
the wooden-worm-worked roller

for whatever its worth
it is worth whatever you can get for it
they croon
before the cold black soul

for you cannot
put real vacuum as a slogan
on a baseball cap
and you cannot fully characterize
the nature of biosemiotics
without compounding the deformation
of the epistemic asymmetricality
of this singularity

we fall into so narrow a slot
that our every aspiration
reigns as thin myth

we are barely here at all