There is something crapulous and far from the sawdust
sticking my head into this large mouseholed garland
outside tamer than a dram of scotch in the yearly ocean of suburbia
the noise of a passing perambulator's squeak is all I get
I fired on the fourheaded asshole concern I remember in a poem
that would reach their friends and make them my enemies
and nothing throughout the course of this act raised itself to the level
of even mild drama; I walked vaguely uncomfortably away thinking, shit,
why didn't I fart during the silence instead of yelling halfway through
the second act; their audience may have resented the incursion on their
                                                                         sabbatical from culture
and this soon ceased to bother me and they soon ceased for me to exist.
the reality less than a dream doesn't stand up to the sun of 11 a.m. what
is it to do when noon looks down its collar and poleaxes it?