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

Grip A

Brutus wears his mask
of mother love

on the right hand
as a gnarling back

citing the hallucinatory

of the beginning
of the Ides’ morning

schema; Cut-curling,
cutting three

letters shaped
a ghosts’ horn (of

the farm of
Priapus) configured

regicidal remedy:

a bend in
prayer is rough

coinage to Ptolemy’s
unbidden tether,

scraping vapor
at the dawning

of a
red awaiting throat.