evaluation of the damp half-thawed

ground scored with diminishing snow grain

was overwhelmingly floaty green; this property

was hastened or fomented by a pair

of gin-and-tonics or gee and tees as I overwhemingly

prefer to think of that specialty twig borne water



before it was all through (by it

I mean the moment) I would hear a

high keening noise from the road or from

beyond the road; I thought could it be from a

truck or trailer? or could it be from the universe

sounding commendation



and scoring 1 true thought for me

because the 1 thought I was thinking was that

poetry really was one of the first and as such

one of the greatest forms of art, most essential

in cause for humanity: after all, look at Lao-Tzu

Aesop, Homer and Anonymous Ballads



Shakespeare, Lazarus and

so, that was the thought. then my munificent

black dog stood and rounded to attention when

the keening noise came and then too came the second thought

which was: well in that case I'm free

to write a really crappy novel now



because great art or not most people care not a crap

for poems but man will they never not shut up

about what polluting dumbass movies they've just seen

and how you've got to see them

too ah fuck it just send me

the jackpot Kafka and I'll mount the psychic blanket party

against all your foes



then now and to come