Join the fray
There are genuine articles
To see here, scurry
On the board of moving pictures
Lotus, beetle, the after.

On the walk you cross
A crack. We are the progeny of Rudolph
Valentino, smoking renegade cigarettes
With the blues.

Simic says:
Mother of God, everyone is invited
So I say:
Mother of God, everyone is invited.

I am invited
Crack in the concrete foot-path
Blood-line of Theda Bara.

I am in Munich with Herzog
Marching on Paris. Children with solar discs
Instead of heads, rummage
Through the waste-paper of Camus.

If you put an ear to the ground
You will have no sense of time
You will hear nothing. Feet tapping, DJ Shadow
The shoes of Bernard Shaw
Sitting in a Vietnamese restaurant
Named Faux.

There are no respirators here,

No crystal cages
No boxes with heads
No Domingo
No Luegi
No albatross
Some albatross.

A billboard engorged. The face of Theda Bara.
Human specks crawling
Trying to touch the black of her eye,
My fingers are smudged
With Theda Bara’s eyes.

I am in the artery of Camus
I am searching for Alhazred
The lake has no water
Hoards of boats, unable to move
I am in the beard of Dickens
Could you do the hokey pokey?

Beckett is sewing buttons
On his shirt that has buttons
Simone de Beauvoir is not dead.
El Greco is rolling dough
Out with his body in Somerset.

We are trying to pave the road
In winter, afternoon could be evening
I hold candles, I am candles
Burning for antiquity.

Neal Stephenson is snorting horse tranquilizer
Off the belly of Tolkien.