from July:

 11

  
 It was a tawny copperhead   world-deep
 in a tangle of choking vines in the moist
 hanging gardens over babbling stems of
 moldering books in a greenhouse   a pen

  
 charcoaled your frozen forms   and a whisper
 wanted to embrace me   through the endless
 waste of frittering   time  (present stencilled
 intimate brakes)  until   a spare spear-spirit

  
 like a salience   in the armored swamps of July
 began to build for me   this doubled arc
 of a dangled   green or jasper   Dirac radio
 to carry its tacked-on   vernal missile

  
 and   it is possible to experience events now
 that will in part be an effect   of my future
 resolves   by making a round trip
 on a rocket ship   in a sufficiently wide   gnu-

  
 maison?   Mais non, Noé!  May we?   Wheee...
 bring the Jubilee   out of Willie's blues
 by way of a Technicolor Time Sub (used)
 or mobius clock   through a Birch Clump Cylinder

  
 down the River Road?  Through the stubby
 singularity pool of a snail's wombhole?
 The future is all hieroglyphical   lumbers
 ultraluminal   "Beep"   spooky but   sweet keen

  
 smell   pressed among advanced waves of a
 mad worldline cruise-saint looping close now
 as Buckaroo Bonzai's   old friends across time
 go   alley oop   a-brim with   dense evidence

  
 of the man who folded himself (asymmetrical
 rabbit) into a symmetrical hat and Hugo
 Gernsback and becomes her sylph.  Arghgh!
 Poe, again!  Whitman, attached! – helendrigauss!

       
                        2.8.2000