you who philosophize disgrace
this is my memo, October twelfth:
mono* the minutes of
one Donald
Trump [means
*monitor surely: yet
then my mind leaps to Twin Cities’
man-of-Major Leagues Molitor, who
(heaven forfend) has nothing to do
with memes (meaning memo) and
frankly (Viola?) should not intervene
with matters of import (most likely
from China.., as meanderings go)]…
thank God, then, for more days a
month: Dylan has entered a ten-
thousandth time [today codified
with the blessing of he who made
thunder (in dynamite form—the
jury
is more than just out (Oliver
Holmes
had cleared that town hall)) and
one
wonders why any on anyone’s side
(Judas or justice) would hobo on in,
save for some Lorax strain,
innate]…
go ahead, then, and figure out fate,
you and others off-white: say who
auditions to play [tambourines and
other such reels of rhyme (while
senses are stripped beyond tapping
in time); I’ve always sojourned
to
bohemian minds, full of non-spite
(if
touches of spit on stage never
hurt):
that’s Amleth (the jester and
crown
prince that’s named here tonight)]…
to Northern Light disparates now
on your own, I tottle this sentient
rolling stone [nothing you haven’t
hewn fast and far-strewn (Soho to
Stockholm and rust-belts between):
you got well enough the crux of the
cross (Rubin’s trigger hanging there
still), no hurricane stifles our will
(and rather reminds what dreams
are at stake), lone(ly) and our’n]…
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