If I Were Drunk
Cast your indictments
upon my Hebe,
a garrisoned mother of self
whose welfare
is cashiered LSD-25;
her quartz
wounded and fixed
by constricting binder clips
in the puce burghs of solitude;
feel how she thunders for me
when she gripes
after beautified dissertations,
defects to lofty pasterns, 
impersonates pens
sneezing for Jesus,
converts yardage to patriotism,
motorizes passionate moistness,
and turns luckless involutions
into cheetahs.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       She is my Hebe.

Reading 7
Rumination
In pondering the riddles of time and space
present in our psychic universe
one’s eyes must always be uppercase:

Whether it be to justify the hope that grace
will coup d’etat all evil works
of pondering the riddles of time and space,

or on the quest to grow our knowledge base
in all things material and diverse
where one’s eyes are always uppercase,

or wishing, in rage, to spit in Death’s pallid face
in driving rain behind our father’s hearse
while pondering the riddles of time and space,

or in perusing poems, to trace
their meaning in words, rhymes, and verse
(Here, one’s eyes must always be uppercase).

But in too much thought, will we risk our case,
and see our sanity flake as scales and disperse?
In pondering the riddles of time and space
one’s eyes must always be uppercase.