by Brian Kim Stefans

Wafting over the maxed bullion
    it is so sad, it is so said
the station wagon's in the dad of
pop paraplegic divots, maxims.
They take the bowling O, the faxed Y
    to the fence, to the warning track and
leap it.  Talking to your
confessor again, paging the doll.
    It is so glad, it is so glad
that nobody's business is news and
suffering, or simply waffling in
    stereotypic Christmas
mimes, evidently sober, but
packed with tracts. A signet from
the ring will cop you a
    pass, a better tomorrow, a fading gas
but opined solidly, toboggan bleakly
into the schizoid static flat tax of
framed desperate strained vocals
    from Z system, in the Q quadrant, where
the speaking stems from.  An  origami
of children playing, Hampton
    Bays imagery.
                   But there's no
medal for persisting, only for meekly
sustaining the entire country, and that's
only if the made mad are
    sitting satyrly, in devolution's
family man.  Crack or yodeling, franchise
    or singularity.

Pub. Feb. 1999 DRC