Bluelight scattered through the tips of snow-covered pine needles below,
Reanimating the neural mists of the nine parts of the soul,
like a silhouette of forlorn fent folder.
Immobile on the horizon, a port drawing all ships.
And by ships I mean people. They fold time, fold money, fold hands.
Cold rhyming, cold pine box, kohlrabi perms, sand in the unitard.
My sinuses burn with acrid thirty-second attention spans, float on.
Buzz is radioactive, garcon.
Scent is atavistic, I wax nostalgic upon
receiving misspelled reports of its powers redacted.
I never believed, but the fact is: the snow is deep and cold.
Buying ear candles, playing lucky numbers.
And it all adds up to whatever encumbers
whatever is lost in the whatevs and waves of graves
and tyranny's sad little wedding cookies
hard as a rock, yet sweet. Lean and trudge
despite the dust, we are yet lesser
providers of diversion. This is an excursion into
total hunger. Staves and knaves are cashing
in the beast, stripping it to the bone.
Nothing left but the aroma. Splashing
scented water on the wed. Placing flowers on the dead.
"Pretty girls are tired, let's put 'em to bed."
Obits or qbits, the divide grows between the knowing roses,
Between those who knows and posers' closeness.
Ars divers quot inbes?
Depends on the context.
Ep to the stein, you know how I lean,
Files in piles, let them be seen.
Fifty State Banana 