letter to Artaud

Dear Artaud,

The sour battalion passed last night, scummed &

not a single rabid god in my throat, nowhere

in the Directionless I seesawed lights by the olde abandoned
truss factory.

Whereas one time I seen the Albino struggle
after the red steer at
Acme Demolition (established 1934),

while just the other side of chain-link the humpback
in retrofit
hawked root-beer and camel-skins.

Like wyrde.

And you, you lost your shark-teeth in and now huff
like a monumental lung-fish but torqued ajaw
way more than prolapsed, dude.

Corruption ratio is down.
Fever stock is up.
Ain't no way that be the Truth.

But it still is only $0.25 for lunch at Mike's:
tomato soup, egg salad sandwich,
one cold glass of fresh milk.

bill of lading

You thrill to
certain civic codes
thumb-tacked
to motel doors.

Fire regulations.
Statements
of liability.

Ringing
cardboard
patents.

epigram

The garden laid out in the old fashioned way of mince pies, arbours, and sugarloaf yews.

[1756, Mrs. Delany in Life & Corr. (1861) III. 435.] OED.