Empty submission on death arrived
writer’s desk at noon

Working quiet long hours to fill it
it should be expected soon

Entries harnessed dispatched flesh
the height of breath commands

came up to slum piled gay ash
in want of familiar gray hands

Screamed at Pushkin scolding Hughes
gave-up on own outlaw’s joke

when to play-up the dead writers to
for through who I felt that I spoke

Whose that?

It’s transistor—radio—man With a
in hand

sits in park Transistor
—radio—man doesn’t
mine the

Radio—man use to play the harp
Radio—man use to catch some crap

Transistor—man takes
his hat off

Transistor—man lost ‘nother bet


Brutus wears his mask of Mother-Love
on the right hand as a gnarling back,

citing the hallucinatory invasiveness
of the beginning of the Ides’ morning

schema. Cut-curling, cutting three
letters shaped a ghosts’ horn (of

the farm of Priapus) configured as
regicidal remedy, a bend in prayer is

rough coinage to Ptolemy’s unbidden
tether; and knowing apology, scraping

vapor at orange dawning of red awaiting