All I am is in
& all the ins are out.

The annual dispunct:
a Real brass bombast burst
this anima thirst, a monolithic durst
of unceasing war & piecing, cymbals
clattering in an iconoclast montage.

Sense?
Adolescence.

Last year a year ago a postcard
from Paris came to me drowsy,
complicit with a subject insistence
upon communal solitude: a clumsy drum
imploding in a cavity of swollen matter.

The Days of Awe, you
remember?

Dadaism, a dove, the moon face above
has nothing to offer: no meditating goddess,
no calculation of god, only sleep.
While the saints wait to gather here, woodwinds
are ululating futile desires into the darkness.