AN OUTREMERICAN SPEAKS

Outfit your mirrors for departure
though the rope-foliage looks nervous,
hung from the harpstring hooks.

Roll pause while the drugs pestle the place
Sceptersweat, you are the grid, the
grill on which I barbeque my b-b-gun.

All nudes and rafters, upcusionings try
to census-suck my neck's chaff.
Then those flour envies the thrift of thorns?

But see--see what sacrifice suite site got
lawnmown out of me: watch it curate
the only shelf not marked Self, that

flowerpot filled with fruitjuice.
The revolt that exaggerates its populace.

TABLE OF CONTENTS NEXT PAGE