Saturday morning, working
the shoulders, realizing
how many more homosexuals
are at Pine Grove versus Roosevelt.
No canal stench this far north, only
a big stick carried loudly, poor
historical puns, and ache.

“Burden me!”
An eight year old author
(The eight year old author) said
to his reflection during a “weird attack” (a
combustion of inspirational hyperventilation).

By now I have been to Rockefeller Center. Villa Farnese
remains to be seen: a Greek dream on Italian
canvas. I only speak restricted breaths. How
can time physically constrict?

Python! Mamba! Feed me a mouse.
I am sore. I need something
weak in my mouth.