lumpen poem

Q: Where do want your tropical island?

A: In a deeply-frozen clime, tackily beautiful
as Superman's Fortress of Solitude,
where he clearly takes his gay tricks.

Q: Who or what is the director of your work?

A: A little bluebird who is nostalgiac
in thrift stores for dead people's owls.

Today, I saw non-sequiturs
perch in some branches in my yard
and sing. Sang regretless

as a fat man's farts.

Q: Do you believe in by William?

A: No. Nothing is by William
that is not first a bluebird
or thrift of some sort.

This is my scent, my water.

I believe in the correct form of failure

which is always compressed,

a Japanese novelist's

remains after death.



A peach should be left atop

a heavy iron vessel

holds the ashes.



To prove the cloud of the novel


still waffles

about matter.


"Lumpen forms are all we have, mon cheri!"