--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Where, Oh Where, Did The Mall-Lady Go?They wanted her to drop her thoughtsAs naturally as her underpants fell, after they wereOver the hips, so the steaming winds of her dailyshowersCould clear her of encroaching stainAs she had been cleared away.They were a function, ignorant of their thinking,chartingCharts.She felt she would have to ignore thesedoctors andNurses in the mental ward.She would have to ignore the pacing patientsAsking cigarettes from her.The hall was rectangular.Everyone moved rectangularly.She would go to dreams of past realitiesWhere she was watching the shoppers' reflectionsAs they passed mall's little fountains--Different types of people-reflections but all silveryIn the still of the waters,Happy and part of the lives of the mall.She would imagine herself sitting on a metal bench--packages of her new clothing pulling on arms and chestLike the recalling torpor that came more easilyTo her lower legs; the weight of the mink that archedHer aching shoulders more like a lady;And a small sack of chocolate starsTouching her upper neck--Wondering what packages her fellow-creaturesBought to be brought home and to whomThey brought them to.And then, as the locks of solitude clicked in herconsciousness,Came the wondering of where, oh where,Did the Mall-Lady go?--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Savior-Searcher In The Bible-BeltI can see you in those dry moments, thenAs clearly as if I were there: staring at the cracksOf the white ceiling above the bedpost, wondering ifYou will slip down three flights to the outer darknessLike your ex-Mormon roommate, here.Your visual mind,Against your will, probably thinks about your squirmThat a few moments ago squirmed you of your juice,Wiggled her skirt back on, resurfaced the lip-spitCrackup in her concrete of makeup, and wordless,Walked like a princess out the door.As the last of the ecstatic vibrations tides you inthe rearYou arise from the raft of the mattress.Then you cover up your nakedness,And move to the light of the living room.And then I actually see you, Don, in the hour that youhad toldMe to step back in.You are bending over theend-table stainedIn the blood of wine.Sunlight, stripped silver fromthe greyClouds, pours through the window to the table.To your right a nine of swords card of a man piercedin theBack gleams as it walls the card of your futurelovers.,And the redness of Doctrines and Covenants to the farleft ofThat table also looks pure in the light.You do not see me.Your mind is racked in screwingthe packFor an answer.You turn another Tarot CardIn the order your destiny is to be read.Your sad eyes look upAnd your languid voice says that you are lateFor your meeting with the local Bishop...A meeting to straighten up your fucking life.I laugh!In bitterness that shakes my intestines, Ilaugh!Another hillbilly manHas lifted his head above the rest--a foot up from thejug--And has blown his breath into the airWhich 'naps another young and fragmented oneTo the call of being holy.But before you ariseYou turn the gleaming card of number four--Your eyes in a more motionless trance than before.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------New England Washing(Mental Account, Some day of Gorbechev, 1987)Another hour.There is no circulationBeneath the steering wheel for my feet.Outside myselfThere is the last of the sun at duskBut like the conquering Hsuing-NuPushing themselves beyond aGreat Wall and through an eternalGathering, it is hardly felt.There is nothing great to trouble meAnd nothing substantial descends on my senses,Giving me thoughts other than the fact I'm thinkingnothing:OnlyA flock of birds in the corner of my left eyeBlend down with the grey skiesAs if the fence barricadingThe farm land does not pertain to them;Thoughts of the center lineAnd not going over it.Days of Gorbechev, the radio speaks of,But not his nights--where, one timeHe may have smashedA big, red cigarette in an ashtrayWith an action stiff and slow;And as he stood up the mattress of his bed may haveRaised to touch his rear, again,Like a quick and soothing give-me-five handshake;And opening a window of the embassyTo escape the stuffy drynessOf electric heat to his suite,He may have let the cool American airAttack him with the smells and sightsOf its diplomatic car exhausts,Grey and orange from street lampsAnd store lights...and howThe nation breathed for once as it moved.The third: road; cows, like islanders;Multi-tinted bladed fields broken by acresOf forests and pastures; a black-sun scene withCar lights; a vision blurred and pebbledThrough the windshield--A truck passes my pinto;Muddy water slapping its face;Its stick eyes smoothing itTo a duller complexion.It isn't yet ChristmasAnd I am going home.My parents one day droopedIn front of all, and were old--We should be having much to say...I, thinking like them, withThe mind of the world,And us smiling unhappilyAnd speaking none of that:But a lot will be said.I am a bum.One of their hearts shall give inAnd their marriage will be a farce...Even in car accidents the marriedDie separately.And then the widowedMother, smoking the cigars of her husband,And coughing them as the husband had doneBut in the apartment of the son, mightVisit away her life:I wouldBring her there, thanking God for a reasonNot to try hiding all of me in some pussyAs in daylight the main partGoes into underwear.This is their townFar from trays with saucersAnd plates and spoons and forks(Sometimes hardened in scalloped potatoesOr bent) and knives and glasses(Glasses sometime with folded bread inside)...But forever coming down the belt for theDumping and washing...the trays that disappearIn a square hole and come out cleanWill continue regardless if I am there.Men fuck virgins; a child-workerIs born and all is holy.There is nothing great to trouble me:The rains that drop and drift nextTo streets in gutters, take awaySmashed Pepsi cups and beer cansWithout intent, bound God knows where,But out of sight.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------The San Franciscan's Night MeditationsWhen I am at a dead-lockIn your rear and thelanguage of my bodyWill not come fromThe third element of the soul,What am I to say?--'ALL BUT ONE DEAD:Mexican immigrants celebrating theStowing away on a 120 degree boxcarWith urine in their stomachs,Acknowledging capitalistic thirsts...Sigue sobre pagina"..Double hubbleThe peso is in troubleAnd to MarsAmerica plansJumping over the moon,And all this has disturbed me!"The night is full of impulsesTo live and to run and seep heavilyInto its dark robes ofSilence and morbid rightness;And as I, again, try to thrust on dryly--A log without a river traveling itTo the product of lumber--and hope to create love inThe smackings of night,Like anyone else, I know that soonI am to apologize for lackOf an ejaculation,And will promise to have a counselorTame me to the exclusion ofAll but work and lust.Sounds of peopleKicking around theNight of early morningBeneath my lover's window;And I withdraw under the sheet,lying flat with the dead moonlight.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Philosophy Of Rita And HerbStaring fixed at the rowsOf floweredWallpaper a pale grayIn the dark efficiency--The three walls still absentTo her consciousnessAs a shadow of silver lightningFades the greynessOf one portion in her view--The "schitzophrenic" liftsup a cigarette hidden behindAn ashtray and the flat groundOf ashes on the table, whichSkid and resurface with herHot breathing.She thinks they areContinents drifting, and herselfUpon them.From feeling stiff and pushed under--Numb to the point of a corpse--With insecurity enough not to remember,Even, her ABC's, Rita runs into the nightWhere outside of a windowShe blesses the workers makingColonial bread.An old man in a cowboy hat, Herb,Is saddled on the wooden railing of a porchTo an apartment complex: seated there beside aremembranceOf a young woman like Rita.And in the spitting fumes; bad-muffler sounds;The rocking phallicism in radio music of passing cars,He feels he has to move or dieAnd gets downTo his pickup.And Rita, upon dawn and upon the end of rain,Walks the streets again after tiring,Ready to go back and confront the curfew-consciousGroup home, and the "zero" on her record full ofZeros.She worries about carrying in her wombA mini-Herb with scabs of grey hairAnd little pot-holes in his tiny face,Though she is still a virgin.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------EstivationWeekends in Tranquility Park--With the downtown buildings, hallways of giantsclustered,Exhaling the coolness echoedFrom the rectangular mouths of doorsOpened and closed by cityers--A coolness came over my thoughtsThe way lack of wind containsThe hastening of Yosemite's flames.There, diurnal and punctual, she crossedThat small area of grass, fountains, and cementWhich were generally buffeted more fully by sun andadjacentSounds, moving the park more than Bush and Dukakis'Presence."WALK" was always lit when la chicaApproached the street, carrying her library books.When would she, artificial and pneumatic,Who like Houston's miniature stop-lightsWhile going to work, veer my movementsTo slide off a plane ticket and be ledThrough and from burning AmazonsAnd green-house climactic changes--Through wasted ozone and my own depleted life--The breath of her mouth my only nourishment.Masking tapeFrom hurricane threatsRemains at the edges of windowpanes;Palm trees, below, are hybrid to cement;Thuc Nguyen's business report figuresBlend and bury themselves as distant sounds;The staff meeting and this cigarette industry aregone.Slid off a plane ticket caught in life's windsRestlessNo friends for realAll wanting something from meThe outside world has nothingExcept life-ending amusements ofSex to escape voidThe dead have some solidity of truthAbout what happens after lifeEven if they are not aware of it,And the rest breathe in fablesEverything is surely unchanged inSpringfield, Mo., where I was raised,But none of it is mineNothing is ours--humanity drifts alongAnd intersects briefly in alliancesMy friendsAre co-workers whom I must expireMy life with civillyAs we light cigarettesAnd bitch of no new raisesWhen would she pull on my armTugging me thoroughly into breaking glassOf the 12th floor conference roomTo fall, putting me out violently,When I can no longer dream--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Mid-West Hymn of AtenAten, where it is throned on the television beneaththe window,Sees above and below and says nothing:It enjoys the woman secretary and the road constructorWho from opposite shifts of the sunCome to it, the cat;Follow the roaming in its mansion;Pensively laugh as it clings to hundred dollar drapes;Feed it holiday popcorn on the throne;And close the drapes that the cat, AtenHad opened by its tugging,And will open again:Opening belowWhere the woman, statue of her libertyWedged in a mud layered hill of snowAnkle-thrustsThe tilt of her body after a moment of standingstill:Face looking in the trash receptacle that herflabbyBreasts rest on the rim of and point toward; headbowedTo the tin; And mind distinguishing between goodandBad trash.Her hands raise from the snow-blendedMixture to push back the hair that was intimatewith trash.She raises her head and glances up at the skythatShe had noticed a few seconds earlier; andwondersOf the person who would throw away a nightgownAnd wilted plants, dented but unopened cat food,And scattered baby pictures--But the cold wind pushes further into her rashedcheeks;And she drops the gown before she can mentallyconceptualizeThe woman's possible imageShe digs furtherand...And opening Above whereTwo crossing jetHad each made an elementOf a cross in the skies---A third, now, and theHeavens appear to playTick-tack-toe with their bad arts,Or do not know how to push out caulk neatlyWhen hoping to seal out the heavens.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------McConicoThrough the hazy watersOf his hot bath, looking, he thoughtThat his woman's pubic hairsShould naturally have come outMore permed like his,Regardless of her color.The door being shut and lockedWith a rifle in front--still he heardFrom the living room a forum of senators'Televised voices discussing laws of limitsIn openness and freedomsAnd ramifications.He did not understand--As the mirrors steamed, drippedDown from the air conditioning's touch, and resteamedWhen it shut off;And when he wondered what home ownersHad used the bathtub beforeAnd what disease might beDropping from the cracks around the faucet--thatThe fags would push down the American way of life.He did not argue that if they were isolatedFrom the mainstream, their liquids might get off onanyProducts as they worked for the cost of theirisolationIn, for example, a barren region of Texas;And that the isolated would, by the testing of theVirus, be proven witchesSo there would not have to be witch hunts--No, he just felt their destruction.And he thought of his womanIn the bedroom, waiting, and becameForgetful of anythingBut the desire to have her.They had that freedom.The American constitutionSaid so---freedom to live and breatheAnd fuck and fuck..Fuck so hard that the penis wouldKnive through the condomAnd spray-paint the man's nameOn the dull walls of the vagina.They had that freedom--those inalienable rights--Her to be banged and to squealTo her friends that she was in loveAnd him to white pussyAnd a gal that he could call his own...His woman.And if the initial M got readyTo graffito-crawl his way out--A problem for the rest of their years---She could erase it, not remembering itWith any more significance thanHaving clipped a broken endOf a fingernail.She had that right.Her man said so, and so saidThe American constitution.His shift in ToastmasterHad for that day ended,And so now he could rest in waters;Focus on the bubbles that roseWhen he farted; and let the memoriesOf the entire day be released to rise and fallLike the steam.He would have to scrub himselfGood before going to his woman:She understood money
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Where, Oh Where, Did The Mall-Lady Go?
They wanted her to drop her thoughts
As naturally as her underpants fell, after they were
Over the hips, so the steaming winds of her daily
showers
Could clear her of encroaching stain
As she had been cleared away.
They were a function, ignorant of their thinking,
charting
Charts.She felt she would have to ignore these
doctors and
Nurses in the mental ward.
She would have to ignore the pacing patients
Asking cigarettes from her.
The hall was rectangular.
Everyone moved rectangularly.
She would go to dreams of past realities
Where she was watching the shoppers' reflections
As they passed mall's little fountains--
Different types of people-reflections but all silvery
In the still of the waters,
Happy and part of the lives of the mall.
She would imagine herself sitting on a metal bench--
packages of her new clothing pulling on arms and chest
Like the recalling torpor that came more easily
To her lower legs; the weight of the mink that arched
Her aching shoulders more like a lady;
And a small sack of chocolate stars
Touching her upper neck--
Wondering what packages her fellow-creatures
Bought to be brought home and to whom
They brought them to.
And then, as the locks of solitude clicked in her
consciousness,
Came the wondering of where, oh where,
Did the Mall-Lady go?
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Savior-Searcher In The Bible-Belt
I can see you in those dry moments, then
As clearly as if I were there: staring at the cracks
Of the white ceiling above the bedpost, wondering if
You will slip down three flights to the outer darkness
Like your ex-Mormon roommate, here.Your visual mind,
Against your will, probably thinks about your squirm
That a few moments ago squirmed you of your juice,
Wiggled her skirt back on, resurfaced the lip-spit
Crackup in her concrete of makeup, and wordless,
Walked like a princess out the door.
As the last of the ecstatic vibrations tides you in
the rear
You arise from the raft of the mattress.
Then you cover up your nakedness,
And move to the light of the living room.
And then I actually see you, Don, in the hour that you
had told
Me to step back in.You are bending over the
end-table stained
In the blood of wine.Sunlight, stripped silver from
the grey
Clouds, pours through the window to the table.
To your right a nine of swords card of a man pierced
in the
Back gleams as it walls the card of your future
lovers.,
And the redness of Doctrines and Covenants to the far
left of
That table also looks pure in the light.
You do not see me.Your mind is racked in screwing
the pack
For an answer.You turn another Tarot Card
In the order your destiny is to be read.
Your sad eyes look up
And your languid voice says that you are late
For your meeting with the local Bishop...
A meeting to straighten up your fucking life.
I laugh!In bitterness that shakes my intestines, I
laugh!
Another hillbilly man
Has lifted his head above the rest--a foot up from the
jug--
And has blown his breath into the air
Which 'naps another young and fragmented one
To the call of being holy.
But before you arise
You turn the gleaming card of number four--
Your eyes in a more motionless trance than before.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
New England Washing
(Mental Account, Some day of Gorbechev, 1987)
Another hour.
There is no circulation
Beneath the steering wheel for my feet.
Outside myself
There is the last of the sun at dusk
But like the conquering Hsuing-Nu
Pushing themselves beyond a
Great Wall and through an eternal
Gathering, it is hardly felt.
There is nothing great to trouble me
And nothing substantial descends on my senses,
Giving me thoughts other than the fact I'm thinking
nothing:
Only
A flock of birds in the corner of my left eye
Blend down with the grey skies
As if the fence barricading
The farm land does not pertain to them;
Thoughts of the center line
And not going over it.
Days of Gorbechev, the radio speaks of,
But not his nights--where, one time
He may have smashed
A big, red cigarette in an ashtray
With an action stiff and slow;
And as he stood up the mattress of his bed may have
Raised to touch his rear, again,
Like a quick and soothing give-me-five handshake;
And opening a window of the embassy
To escape the stuffy dryness
Of electric heat to his suite,
He may have let the cool American air
Attack him with the smells and sights
Of its diplomatic car exhausts,
Grey and orange from street lamps
And store lights...and how
The nation breathed for once as it moved.
The third: road; cows, like islanders;
Multi-tinted bladed fields broken by acres
Of forests and pastures; a black-sun scene with
Car lights; a vision blurred and pebbled
Through the windshield--
A truck passes my pinto;
Muddy water slapping its face;
Its stick eyes smoothing it
To a duller complexion.
It isn't yet Christmas
And I am going home.
My parents one day drooped
In front of all, and were old--
We should be having much to say...
I, thinking like them, with
The mind of the world,
And us smiling unhappily
And speaking none of that:
But a lot will be said.
I am a bum.
One of their hearts shall give in
And their marriage will be a farce...
Even in car accidents the married
Die separately.And then the widowed
Mother, smoking the cigars of her husband,
And coughing them as the husband had done
But in the apartment of the son, might
Visit away her life:I would
Bring her there, thanking God for a reason
Not to try hiding all of me in some pussy
As in daylight the main part
Goes into underwear.
This is their town
Far from trays with saucers
And plates and spoons and forks
(Sometimes hardened in scalloped potatoes
Or bent) and knives and glasses
(Glasses sometime with folded bread inside)...
But forever coming down the belt for the
Dumping and washing...the trays that disappear
In a square hole and come out clean
Will continue regardless if I am there.
Men fuck virgins; a child-worker
Is born and all is holy.
There is nothing great to trouble me:
The rains that drop and drift next
To streets in gutters, take away
Smashed Pepsi cups and beer cans
Without intent, bound God knows where,
But out of sight.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The San Franciscan's Night Meditations
When I am at a dead-lock
In your rear and the
language of my body
Will not come from
The third element of the soul,
What am I to say?--
'ALL BUT ONE DEAD:
Mexican immigrants celebrating the
Stowing away on a 120 degree boxcar
With urine in their stomachs,
Acknowledging capitalistic thirsts...
Sigue sobre pagina"..
Double hubble
The peso is in trouble
And to Mars
America plans
Jumping over the moon,
And all this has disturbed me!"
The night is full of impulses
To live and to run and seep heavily
Into its dark robes of
Silence and morbid rightness;
And as I, again, try to thrust on dryly--
A log without a river traveling it
To the product of lumber--
and hope to create love in
The smackings of night,
Like anyone else, I know that soon
I am to apologize for lack
Of an ejaculation,
And will promise to have a counselor
Tame me to the exclusion of
All but work and lust.
Sounds of people
Kicking around the
Night of early morning
Beneath my lover's window;
And I withdraw under the sheet,
lying flat with the dead moonlight.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Philosophy Of Rita And Herb
Staring fixed at the rows
Of flowered
Wallpaper a pale gray
In the dark efficiency--
The three walls still absent
To her consciousness
As a shadow of silver lightning
Fades the greyness
Of one portion in her view--
The "schitzophrenic" lifts
up a cigarette hidden behind
An ashtray and the flat ground
Of ashes on the table, which
Skid and resurface with her
Hot breathing.She thinks they are
Continents drifting, and herself
Upon them.
From feeling stiff and pushed under--
Numb to the point of a corpse--
With insecurity enough not to remember,
Even, her ABC's, Rita runs into the night
Where outside of a window
She blesses the workers making
Colonial bread.
An old man in a cowboy hat, Herb,
Is saddled on the wooden railing of a porch
To an apartment complex: seated there beside a
remembrance
Of a young woman like Rita.
And in the spitting fumes; bad-muffler sounds;
The rocking phallicism in radio music of passing cars,
He feels he has to move or die
And gets down
To his pickup.
And Rita, upon dawn and upon the end of rain,
Walks the streets again after tiring,
Ready to go back and confront the curfew-conscious
Group home, and the "zero" on her record full of
Zeros.She worries about carrying in her womb
A mini-Herb with scabs of grey hair
And little pot-holes in his tiny face,
Though she is still a virgin.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Estivation
Weekends in Tranquility Park--
With the downtown buildings, hallways of giants
clustered,
Exhaling the coolness echoed
From the rectangular mouths of doors
Opened and closed by cityers--
A coolness came over my thoughts
The way lack of wind contains
The hastening of Yosemite's flames.
There, diurnal and punctual, she crossed
That small area of grass, fountains, and cement
Which were generally buffeted more fully by sun and
adjacent
Sounds, moving the park more than Bush and Dukakis'
Presence."WALK" was always lit when la chica
Approached the street, carrying her library books.
When would she, artificial and pneumatic,
Who like Houston's miniature stop-lights
While going to work, veer my movements
To slide off a plane ticket and be led
Through and from burning Amazons
And green-house climactic changes--
Through wasted ozone and my own depleted life--
The breath of her mouth my only nourishment.
Masking tape
From hurricane threats
Remains at the edges of windowpanes;
Palm trees, below, are hybrid to cement;
Thuc Nguyen's business report figures
Blend and bury themselves as distant sounds;
The staff meeting and this cigarette industry are
gone.
Slid off a plane ticket caught in life's winds
RestlessNo friends for real
All wanting something from me
The outside world has nothing
Except life-ending amusements of
Sex to escape void
The dead have some solidity of truth
About what happens after life
Even if they are not aware of it,
And the rest breathe in fables
Everything is surely unchanged in
Springfield, Mo., where I was raised,
But none of it is mine
Nothing is ours--humanity drifts along
And intersects briefly in alliancesMy friends
Are co-workers whom I must expire
My life with civilly
As we light cigarettes
And bitch of no new raises
When would she pull on my arm
Tugging me thoroughly into breaking glass
Of the 12th floor conference room
To fall, putting me out violently,
When I can no longer dream
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Mid-West Hymn of Aten
Aten, where it is throned on the television beneath
the window,
Sees above and below and says nothing:
It enjoys the woman secretary and the road constructor
Who from opposite shifts of the sun
Come to it, the cat;
Follow the roaming in its mansion;
Pensively laugh as it clings to hundred dollar drapes;
Feed it holiday popcorn on the throne;
And close the drapes that the cat, Aten
Had opened by its tugging,
And will open again:
Opening below
Where the woman, statue of her liberty
Wedged in a mud layered hill of snow
Ankle-thrusts
The tilt of her body after a moment of standing
still:
Face looking in the trash receptacle that her
flabby
Breasts rest on the rim of and point toward; head
bowed
To the tin; And mind distinguishing between good
and
Bad trash.Her hands raise from the snow-blended
Mixture to push back the hair that was intimate
with trash.
She raises her head and glances up at the sky
that
She had noticed a few seconds earlier; and
wonders
Of the person who would throw away a nightgown
And wilted plants, dented but unopened cat food,
And scattered baby pictures--
But the cold wind pushes further into her rashed
cheeks;
And she drops the gown before she can mentally
conceptualize
The woman's possible imageShe digs further
and...
And opening Above where
Two crossing jet
Had each made an element
Of a cross in the skies---
A third, now, and the
Heavens appear to play
Tick-tack-toe with their bad arts,
Or do not know how to push out caulk neatly
When hoping to seal out the heavens.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
McConico
Through the hazy waters
Of his hot bath, looking, he thought
That his woman's pubic hairs
Should naturally have come out
More permed like his,
Regardless of her color.
The door being shut and locked
With a rifle in front--still he heard
From the living room a forum of senators'
Televised voices discussing laws of limits
In openness and freedoms
And ramifications.He did not understand--
As the mirrors steamed, dripped
Down from the air conditioning's touch, and resteamed
When it shut off;
And when he wondered what home owners
Had used the bathtub before
And what disease might be
Dropping from the cracks around the faucet--that
The fags would push down the American way of life.
He did not argue that if they were isolated
From the mainstream, their liquids might get off on
any
Products as they worked for the cost of their
isolation
In, for example, a barren region of Texas;
And that the isolated would, by the testing of the
Virus, be proven witches
So there would not have to be witch hunts--
No, he just felt their destruction.
And he thought of his woman
In the bedroom, waiting, and became
Forgetful of anything
But the desire to have her.
They had that freedom.The American constitution
Said so---freedom to live and breathe
And fuck and fuck..
Fuck so hard that the penis would
Knive through the condom
And spray-paint the man's name
On the dull walls of the vagina.
They had that freedom--those inalienable rights--
Her to be banged and to squeal
To her friends that she was in love
And him to white pussy
And a gal that he could call his own...
His woman.And if the initial M got ready
To graffito-crawl his way out--
A problem for the rest of their years---
She could erase it, not remembering it
With any more significance than
Having clipped a broken end
Of a fingernail.She had that right.
Her man said so, and so said
The American constitution.
His shift in Toastmaster
Had for that day ended,
And so now he could rest in waters;
Focus on the bubbles that rose
When he farted; and let the memories
Of the entire day be released to rise and fall
Like the steam.
He would have to scrub himself
Good before going to his woman:
She understood money