Cornell's Untitled
Gray ashen
the last ultimate flower
breaking through
sheets of concrete & steel

encrusting the dust roots
gripping the Night
with tentacles of the cement moon

pencils drawing continuously
the high water marks
higher & higher
than flaking-off

paper-wall dusts
of "Police" waves
demonstrating crowds away
tides through & through

eroding all the masses
breaking & breaking through
slipping down into
the lowest point:

depths the dust
chairs pulled under the tables
in the deserted conference rooms
take on the appearance of

sunbathers under their umbrellas
at the beach
gray ashen
faces with terror struck
sinking to Apathy

watching merely The Tides or
their so laughable alternatives

lamentable: the ash

gray ashen

in a key O vast

O vaster than all
space imaginable
& beyond all thought

so overwhelmingly

turning & turning
in a folding & folding

Dust Flood
gray ashen

the nipples of an
(our) Prodigious Mother

World without will

still nurturing & nurturing
extensions of inexpiry!

her intoxicatingly gray ashen
tides of the warmest dust-milks

bubbling & bubbling


that authenticity
which was the original
bittersweet Time

before existence
gave up the treasures
it had guarded so well &

One Universe

entirely sobered up
new-hatched with the contemplation
of The Accurate Deceit.

Hopper's Room For The Tourists
Sorta Fine

Surrounded by the Night
rich soothing eyes
wheel all themselves
over the shoulders
of the stuffiest sofas

touched by the torch-dedications
surmounting the dark difficulties
& varieties of jesting insubstantialities

danger: The Symmetry bleeds
into smoothness

the airplane hair-O-Plenty thickens
invisible the anger of the angels
with their superfluous bird-wings
flying into outer space
planet to planet

O with no oxygen cylinders but
bubbles their faces
& their habits suits them
as well as the nightingales'
restoring all of freshness

to the breeze
or bringing on the Sea salt-swept
th'talents of our Intents
upon a glass plate breaking
bringing the silver arcs half-moons
like stone Goddesses
descending from their darkness niche
they melt into awaiting
love of arms of the arms wars
of the moments blind

words roll down porcelain tongues
like soapbubbles & helium balls
only to lie there like logs (in the mud)
the outhouses of filthy frogs

who use them as their senses
or look through them as if but lenses
Vision slipping across them clean
and lost into the distance
that meant to get into them

welcoming the World
with the invocation:
Walk over us! All over us!
asks the grass: Is there Salvation
in such a sacrifice?!

Answered only by the ice
forgotten & unrecognized
trying to save what can be saved of Life
embracing with itself the World
surrounded by the Night wormed through with warm.