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J A C K E T  # 5
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Haki Pok
P A S T O R A L   D I S P O S A L
  P A S T O R A L   D I S P O S A L
Theft is a property
of the lethargy detergent,
and the Japanese
fantails, burrowing
into the gravel, like phantoms.
But modesty isn't
a property
of the big guns of Modesto
who ride and ride (their
lungs bear chalices
of the choir), catch on like
or lowlier, even lowliest,
suggest the irredentist
heaving cathedral
-- "You flew me by in a
dry heave sigh,"
the blond scat-sang,
pandering to desire.
Cocktails, therewith, as
in Molotov, sarong-
wrapped, and laden,
and benchmark-smashing
prosciuttos, and
alien renditions of
"Go Tell the Mountain on Me" and
"All's Western on the Quiet Front" and
"The Land
Waste," yes
tonight he's gonna party
like it's 1998, and it is.
Ok, ok - the rhomboid!
And of the horrible, terrible, portable, comestible, he chose
a Scottish lambskin and a Japanese "look-at-it-this-way,"
as though you, so to speak, were looking through and not at
                          a TV,
scratching the remission with a failed sense of fiction --
            but your fractious ass goes on and on,
a storm cloud brewing o'er the factions of the Barbizon . . .
"O, Brazil! I'd take you in, if you weren't carrying me!"
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