here at dazed lute press
we’ve been conducting
into your private thoughts.
One faction wonders
whether or not you wonder
must one imagine oneself
beneath the desk
holding particular crayons
or is it best
to stare at as many crudely drawn
bus stops apples and clarinets
as can across the land be collected
to enter the dimness
of morning assemblies?
Some think you think the only constant
is constant observation.
pace the deep blue
of do you know
truly you are about to discover
why why flowers
in the cubicles
while between the buildings
never the sparrow
sings yes the cities die when you leave them,
yes no one cares what you do.
The glass covered in dust
windows of the thrift store display
a mirror from the 1920’s.
If you take it it will no longer
with important thoughts
pushed towards the mighty river.
Clouds playing dominos agree.
At Everest on Grand
someone eats yak
and discusses the endless undeclared
the neutral provinces of me and you.
Long metallic articulated girders
cast thin shadows
over the faces
of thousands of radios in windows.
A photograph of a pacifist smiles.
He wore a white suit
was a friend to the poor
and worked for the union
of unemployed telegraph workers
who listen for signals
pulsing as Joni Mitchell never said
from the heart of a distant star.
The city built a museum to encase
in a wall that once
overlooked the sea.
In the evening through giant speakers
people listen to troubled gold songs
off continental shelves.
It’s the one
of everything is related,
the rich own the clouds,
and you can always locate yourself
with so many shadows
to instruct you.