I know how to get to Zero. Make it somebody else’s
ocean caught my eye before the boot-faced elephant. Ping
the cop-car drafting a naked young gentleman from Italy,
all blond and burnt. It’s nothing but an inaccessible rev
olution down here, no way to see which language this
work is growing, which narrow agents laugh their way
through Chinatown’s wet bruised burdens. Know the statute,
Zero. It’s your own honest dog-lover of buzzes, not mine.
Find your inner portraiture, escape all the snappy punches
that bring you down to nobody; no greater thrill than wrap
ping one’s leg around a soiled and greedy plot, this [head]ache
of a masterpiece finds us minding our own peaches. I’m a
shamed of this direction. Wrestle me with the twentieth
century fiction, Mister Fiction. Find my bulb, Bubble Girl.
