For I will consider my dog Poochkin
(& his long-lost brothers, Chekarf & Dogstoyevsky).

What shall we say to our sister?
Say that we have found a way to ground the sun,
say that we will come back over the rim of the world

enters the dream
like an octopus floating
in its own ink.

Our souls spore-borne
Heart-shaped gametophytes

Here are the snapshots from Horor Vacui

That’s me jumping off a cliff! 
That’s me throwing a lit match in a forest of drought! 

   I’ve just been writing a letter in which I announced that I had finished a novel with or without pain and distress, that the considerable manuscript was lying in my drawer ready to go, with the title already in position and packing-paper at hand, or the work to be wrapped and sent in. Furthermore, I have purchased a new hat which for the present I shall wear only on 

There are no cattle in Abilene.
I expected cattle.
I thought they trafficked in cattle in Abilene.

The philosophical pickle ponders
both that which is, and that which
might be “beyond the barrel,” as

I write suicide notes in bed late at night
So they’ll know when I’m dead
That I was not insane, or worse, unkind.

The bananas in the basket
on top of the refrigerator
give me pleasure