for Jennifer Moxley
 
 
      Gris gris on my right
              forced fake word-force
      fricasseed, fracased
              in the grinned flat flare.
      "Another paragon, Iceland,
              to free feed from the meta-tombé."
 
 
            "The word tombé," the girth grown
                    on my bereft sensed self spat, "means
            'to form.'  In yeast bateaus
                    shouts of thousand thousands chose to choose, in
            fall, in all, for Apollo
                    tomorrow. To enter spent and doubted - out
            in the Rasta hustle - busted
                    tombs, boys: shivering for the gaunt grits of Helos.
 
 
Waco weekends crammed them 'in house' because
        they go slow well - the hurdled
hairs of the Hesperides, Ariadne, stumped - beyond
        Weakening Horizon. O Shasta shakes shattering, where
the Sun groins in!" the
        dipped Dane withered.
 
 
Another hectare: files of
          Donne, Di Palma, Toto, haunt. Gorgeous
lids altering faltered in the
          Orca-acked drive guilt, dramatic, druidic - drained:
Hate Mystery.
             Therefore all failure of ours for the bourne tour's
          stars literally slimmed, wafted
in months of sorting "swear" sins, with dump swains
          beefier than round.
                             Randy-Of-Ligature-Mother: "Shea uttered
mot oath-hairs, split Sanft airs - her turdy
          toned storing bonied stilts gaze out of their swooning."
 
 
            "Putt the untimely primate under its
                atari, the 'Bee's Cat''s host,
            lost!"
                Therefrom they'd rail full, they hot
            on the circled Ross Combo, not those dimpled codices of the
                dreaded Snow Miao, though under tough
            Waist Land's pods and days, withered roast pants of blamed
                class.
 
 
                     The burst bat faces wrathed north of their
                           overt lovers, careered to fly to. . .
                     - Then the chorus
                           cupped cornily (conies!) cornered, kirked, draped in
                     Hecate's dove-tails, trumpeted
                           to waft slight weights here, wandering, woken
                     to attention of the tension of the hemmed End of the Universe.
 
 

 
Pub. Feb. 1999

 
DRC