A roof and walls remind that taxes and rent make sense
mostly in colder climates. Gathering in the life-forces –
bottles, jars, cured meats. Prescriptions of ersatz.
Morning for morning, necessity creates junk, given up
in pursuit of sameness. Art also has its morality.
Waiting outside a pawnbroker’s window, a handful of
teeth, glass eyes, a broken tympanum. A poem for
autumn’s last days, in this our era of chronic remorse.
In dreams I struggle beneath some dying Minotaur
that will not give up the ghost. Another day of the
dry heaves, staring into well-springs of boredom.
Why punish ourselves with alternatives? The wound
between the dilemma’s horns beckons like a sex.
Though in the meantime, pretending to states of mind
that freely co-operate, you expect the worst.