by Jeffrey Grunthaner
Cult fame can never provide
you anything more
than the usual suspects,
blue walls of improbability,
the sophistries of fools
jack-hammering against
the dividing horizon. Nothing
is impossible / the world
itself reads “I’m possible.”
& I would probably think
the same thing, masturbating
“ohm” to the thrumming
sounds at a bar counter,
the world’s famous image
recoiling from itself
into the chronic métier
of every action: a red-carpet
extension of spheric
detonation implied
by the word “corporeal”
in its out-to-lunch sense.
good one!