trust the mechanicals to make a box of it,
eluding contrary brown fields of rice
all the hunting dogs ride down
dying long sheets of paper bright red
juggling clamshells with a beggar’s ease
in spite of, though instead of
all the fumbling gasps at heaven
pete’s left his keys at the gate again
there’ll be no fetching the rollyball now
all the giant’s raging, storms
and beaching whales brigade
fiddle-dee-dee
bash the crankshaft open with your hammer
we’ll never get these melons to market
broke down on the shores of Monteczuma
shoals of goats–yikes!–wave in herds
further, the bardo’s long face just strums,
his mouthwhistle longing for the old ‘stache