yer broke down
wheel; on a wattle,
with gobbled words;

half lit, the foggy
morning ocean,

going . . .

"last inquisition
was at pearl harbor."

. . . coming,

"try and be more
cosmopolitan in
your own mind."

a poetry of madness
that had already ended,
in these past moments;

day after a night at sea . . .

growing on this fish shit;
in the wet sand & moon.

withdrawal from some
perpetual bank

for a natural channel; having
licked mysteries & chewed
one peaceful evening . . . waking,

restless in an isolation of metal,

to remember the shoeless shore; or,
rediscover some emptiness of breakfast.