“Poets should get back to saying crazy shit / All of the time” —Dorothea Lasky
You can like or not like the end. Excluding
the bright and inconsiderate consequences of
Liking colors camera-like synaptic & cohesive.
Look here’s the resolution you’ve been seeking all week!
These are not smart people. Not even kind. They are ours.
A portion will be donated. To an act of faith. Obedient.
You can assume the fiction. All that heaviness allows.
Will be allocated. Upon receipt of your declarations.
Our good will. A defiant temper. Coming here in roses.
Reading poems but not Poetry has been good for your skin.
When water implies a pasture. Then a crazy barking my love.
A perennial inability there announces Me in grimy glory.
As old maniacs pronounced it. Jedermann. Sein. Eigner.
You get it. A stumble near the goal. An urgent heave-ho.
To the line. Concussive. Blasted infrastructure. A bruise.
Lightly. As usual. Silent. In it. Silent. As usual. In light.