there is a secret in this poem
that one of the other poems
can reveal. when we're done
you will know. I remember reading
Wier & Pouce, I remember reading
somewhere that they have
these fast replicating organisms
that generate the changes
in airline flight prices, and they're
very reactive to everything -
aftershave, barometric pressure,
unconscious guilt - and nobody knows
shit about them, they just pour another one
in when the last one's dead. soon
there's gonna be a popularity contest
and the prize is that I get to be
miles away watching a column
of smoke clear the tree line.
I can't compass the epic on a break
it's like an unfinished basement
mooch mouth on stutter eyes like
18 hours of stream television
I didn't watch.
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