The gnomons ashen shadow ripens like ethylene: a sassier fear taught a knarly gnosis 

 

To make the sun run and leave the evicted avatar in the rearview secreting syllables in the loamy air like crates of

unplayable albums mumbling Fate is short 

 

For fatal. So, Argonauts of the world unite!  Go nuts with your yelps and amens as we sail aloft this throb and strum of

afterthought

 

To desist from the nereids’ eternal ecstasies and exhort instead an anesthetized nomos,

 

A cortege of reused sloops untied, drawn out on the tide and away from any existing exit over death’s anaerobic slop,

racing to no end, dead even even dead, so it’s always a tie. 

 

In lieu of wild carrot, the hemostatic yarrow, its red litmus staunches a year like a nesting of tarot Fools!  

 

The yowl is not an early language, the eolith not an early tool, an ohm not a deposed om, but a buoyed joy is alighting

that we must let fly or else it unspools,

 

So enamored with detours, its roving erodes the enamel off the equipment for living and saws ennui into the dol and

drum of time.  

 

 

 

O, tuba-call of the California sea lion exhort a caul of marfire from under this funnel cloud marred by the marine layer’s

eunoia

 

To light up the tumescent, saline-scented sea with its entombed runic ruins of coral reefs pallid and maligned and we in

awe

 

That the glint of elegy gang aft agley as if a chord of trite ta-das could cheat a wave of hate out of whatever

 

Meaning we weigh in, while senile naiads unbare their fornix tattoos and unbar a farcical sea to amuse the annoyed

muse Iouea whiling away 

 

In their midst, while Gyoto’s choral chants accompany tandem motets of dust motes that divot a devout light so—and

so we say a sound can save us, at least near so and so far, from this awkward, esoteric telic doom that hefts and hawks a

heap of errata to burst unevenly like terracotta upon this terrordome while we let Tibet thaw, aw

 

Meanwhile, Sleipnir, like a three-hearted octopus, cordially giddyups toward Ginnungagap, eyeing Odin in his tarsier

with taser t-shirt averring with a giddy yap, before wavering, all the while touting the Vanir’s final waiver for ever and

ever.