“The Commissioners in Lunacy pursue

ironical neutrality and intensive

cultivation of a double point of view.


The Lunacy Report itself is an untoward event

but by means of the electric telegraph

there’ve been counter-roars of an ‘only moment.’


Our august ally in low Pandemonium

has acted on her own hook.

The secret thought? The institution


and its snug retreats are harmless,

floating capital

of plush and swash, or


a mere error of procedure, a technical blunder

at the Transatlantic Press.

(Read only the French newspapers.)”










With their 




glances the sky-

scrapers assume

us, we who have


to catch not them but our-

selves off guard to see things,

them being so tricky


these days what with jokey nature

and burrito-junkiedom, what

with the chorus of urinals


flushing one after another as you walk

by on your way to the lukewarm surreal-

ism of the really good moments like


when the Nerf football overhead hits the peak of

its arc as you walk underneath knowing full well

without looking that the son will catch his father’s


parabola, like when the big piece of cauliflower

transforms before you into a granmama with over-

thin neck and tasteless perm, like when the drooping hoods of the 


young men’s darkblue sweatshirts morph into oversized tears adorning

their backs like capes, like when you say the trees are just so great-looking

you have to go out and laminate them and you laminate everything.

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