If only here and now wasn’t as hollow as tomorrow seems,
And matters of consequence that had matter were
Born into being by
A minor miracle.
But no hero or image conjured
What I imagine as a dense fog of little sorrow;
What I wonder is if stages by the sands reach in heaven,
The latter of which are much later
Than they were a few minutes ago.
Whatever goes into this is something like a serpent;
A deranged lunatic on rampage;
A sordid love affair with no sex;
The jurisprudence of the sane gunman;
Fortunes made of continual transaction;
Nothing means anything
Anything means nothing
Means nothing anything
Anything nothing means
The wolves have shed the wooly veneer;
Hopscotch lines painted on asphalt fade slowly;
But what has the world world come to?
What are we to do but live with each other?