John Fitzgerald.
            --if ever in fact traces of free labor did exist. . .

      I sense no longer the sense of this life’s sense.
      But rather am secreted by initial conditions.
      I’m unhappy here
      it seems rather
      ignorant, this country
      we agree we agree
      the fates
      they agree
      the fumes
      agree also it is
      one of the things we like--
      Dioramas vouch-safe
      quasi-indigenous
      portals of light realization.
      we believe we believe
      the ache
      decides for itself
      and the fortunate
      have found everything already here

      the bloodstream
      in the growth on a headline
      All this at the cost
      of religion itself, ‘Power’
      and ‘accident’ are but
      names for the causal chains. . .
      that absence or
      Demographic Questionaire
      it perturbs the crustaceans after all
      you’re wrong about clarity
      I’d rather just sit
      and watch the game
      On the American Forces
      Radio Network severance
      of regained glossolalia
      What’s that little plan
      you live in?
      the failure, the inherent
      ‘unnatural’
      ask & you shall ask
      crack this?
      crack who?
      Look up
      on the lip
      of the fool
      are formal constraints
      for fools. Freud
      enjoyed the variable
      refrain of the meritorious
      surf & slipped on his
      tile-colored tunic. The rushes
      had shown him
      that residual dystopic
      impediments lay among the
      legally blind objects
      in the least of our
      collections. But I
      don’t know what happened
      to what happened. We lock
      our keys in our surrealism.
      --it is not thought that needs--
      The dawn fills
      the naked
      & coughing
      takes the true
      tympany out the tongue
      of the crystal teeth. A
      jaundiced secretive
      sergeant-like wind
      soaps awake the rickety
      temple-- it
      is all one
      tomb,
      bureaucracy, the caulked
      occasion of us cradling
      & carving & not crazed &
      for most of the day
      The great
      enemy of clear language
      is insincerity. It is not
      easy, in the biography under
      review, given the power of the
      US propaganga system,
      foisting more than a fair
      share of the ritual indecency
      on a flip diagnosis
      of the savage beauty
      we surround.

      Forever isn’t everlasting.
      Tomb this dream of same.
      They doom the lettuce
      an appliance deserves. . .
      If anything is excellent
      or praiseworthy--
      think about such
      things. Time is money.
      Thank you for your time.


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