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the rot of some deep-wasting roots pops bulbs
of white mushrooms up which boil the soil, I

mean, moil the soil (a bile phrase), how, what
a misgo (alack, my best bad writing)—no, no,

my characters aren’t characters but charact’ry
all kinds of things played out poorly:

if the temperature, as they say it might, goes
to 25 tonight, the begonias will be gone, the

daffodils will be daffy, and the crabapples
will be, well, crabby, and, of course, the

succulent mother-of-pearl will suck: (sonority
cannot draw the height of his arc but blubbers

underwater like a drowning humpback: these
days: and a man, a writer, said of a man,

a literary agent, that he, the literary agent,
said he liked only gaspable stories: graspable

I said, you mean: no, he, the writer, said:
he said that he, the literary agent, said he

would seek to place only the gaspable: alas,
that ever the age had come to such: but, on

the other hand, dull, bad writing will not hue
up the cry, I whoreson daresay:) there is a

galaxy lies askant the tree-level that spins
its frail arms out to the Hubble lens, and

light traveling at over 180,000 miles per
second can get there in 600,000,000 years: you

can put that in your pipe and smoke it, poof
you’re gone: (when you get old you’re more

interested in a redistribution of weight than
wealth: the pot lumps smooth with convexity,

the abs lose their trained ruffles, and the
flesh-flabby dugs dangle down: a mispleasaunce

at the end of the road: I hope my literature,
which was mere allusion, has pleased you: I’m

signing off for today, I have to brush my teeth
and get some sleep: tomorrow I have to get

the garbage out by the road by 8 A.M.: (had he
taken the “wrong” road he would have hit an

EVEN BIGGER DIFFERENCE