Broken, giddy up, dead.
Today I face thunder. How to pay homage...
Page 10 concluded some orthodontic advice.
My instinct when asked is to inch back
To the moody raw nation where these talks and notes
Jettison their own use. No half-soothing word
On top various uninvented heights,
No heights outward
Of looking into what we broke —

The soul is a hypothesis, a sweet flying
Fish out of water wind-surfing over interstates
To destroy itself.

We begged it to go faster and keep at it,
Stick with a sublime subject or object, rally
For more than shimmering in a mega-lens.

If you can slap it perhaps you should.