Comic verse, mildly cursed – armed with the grace
and alarm of quantum space but – lacking backing: lived
by reflex – impulse – born in anxious memory – raveling
woolly thought, mesh of fuzz, timorous cranial buzz:
countering doubt with lust – to eat, perchance (at last!)
to beat insomnia – or fuck – or otherwise go after luckless
dancing bank clerks in the dark – sharks in the deep:
to whom do we owe what? Seeping radioactive bits,
or floating about like senseless twits, entirely sure they’ll
last, some heedless souls appear to know what’s going on
behind the show put on between the future and the past –
and somehow grasp from that what we ought all pursue.
You long ago stopped wondering if they do.