the poem is an emergency

all the lights (down lights)
point to your holy-assed posse
ss ions
shut the power and dangle
heft in form of
gender heavy rodeoic
half-tones (is that your sun?)

looming plate glass
holds an image of your like
ness in its rather utter
maze of concentration
and intrinsic wafers shelve
other intrisicities while

shepherds eye the foreign birds
and sing in thirds
record in booklets their
receding learning in a huff
awaiting sanskir
voiced mid-harbor
where the boats are in
and being washed ahead
of schedule

anybody noticing half
anything ought to be t
rained to holler out
or in a pinch demand
a pad of paper to convey
what everyone should heed

it's bake sale time
and you should be apart
from home this very
minuet on camera
who can say what must
be said there is a margin
and let's not for halftix
sake clutter it up
with error