GONE HAS LEFT THE BUILDING
From Wichita to Okinawa with an oboe on my knee,
I suffered from surname interruptus
and mixed up Sartre with Ginseng tea.
Audubon went to the birds,
but I drove the Autobahn without ruffling any feathers.
Rumor has it that we will all receive
a big apocalyptic pie in the face if we keep
on fucking up the planet at such a fast pace.
I have taken to hurtling from one flaming ravine to another
without regard for the undisturbed proclamations
that live in my most toss-and-turn gut region.
It was deep breathing day last Tuesday down on the memory farm,
where all good clairvoyants sigh a sigh of relief
that they do not have to wear the philosophical feedbags again
in order to fatten up for house inspection by the clairvoyant police.
An argument lost is a bottle of single malt on the horizon.
The ruling-class claws cannot dig deep enough into my long skinny neck.
I am not even worthy of carrion crows circling my field of play.
Poetic exaltation is leaking all the way from here to Timbuktu.
No respectable shuteye academic is going to swallow
any of the rooftop howls coming from my sprawling mouthful of shit.
Before you know it, this wobbly year will disappear into the latest
neighborhood cultural Black Hole and the very gone of gone
will have most certainly left the building and taken up residence
somewhere on the far side of the expanding Milky Way.
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