Hallucinations are mild in a new year,
only remarking on the viral contagion’s

alarming cause of dearth, then death, of
local American industry—why revisit

your callous grandma’s holy writ when
fries, and fried chicken, go for five bucks

at the Grade pending Chinese joint? Why
not was not what the liquid soap left on

my lips that time I shouted fire…while
watching Bill Cosby explain germ-theory

in my solitary theatre so lovingly referred
to as Allen Funt’s Hairy Catatonia.

If historicized prophecy is just, and good,
and enough, for eighty percent of all of

the doubly plus one, twice-told passions
of Christendom, these few sentiments are

surely bound to be preserved alongside a
Chock Full o’Nuts napkin in Tulsa,

Oklahoma—the state, the territory, and
the original Broadway production, too.

Mild ‘auditory’ hallucinations, does that
seem to sound less stressed? Wait until

early June, the make-believe mosquitoes will
devour you for nothing—presuming your

corporeal co-religionist is enjoying his
reformed, charitable, mood-still machine.


Or is that the drubbing of the sleep?

Represented in a representation in
representations of mind

Who is there to snag the determined
body awake?

From the footbridge; to yonder lake’s
iron split deep

Smooth pale galley face rocked on a
chiding of the water