He ate honeyed flies and drank
Tang before it was popular
and Cezanne discovered the Poplar tree
He ran in the snow without shoes.
Everyone chatters about his views.
In the wilderness, he saw a decline
in the use of the patronymic,
not unrelated to the consumption of
meat in Kurdish settlements
where pastures of county become country.
Eventually he had to leave.
He wanders around East.
There he comes across rags, weeds,
a dolphin-gang infested sea
filled with dead dolphin.
This hurts him. The world hurts.
He went through a mystical phase, teaching
English in a dry country that
in many ways was the singular of lice.
There was nothing but brevity for Jerome to try on
there. Duly undressed, always a little drowsy,
He wore skins but not like a caveman.
At the Mirage, in Las Vegas, he very much enjoyed poker thinking it
was a race to fold all cards and run quickly out
through the spotless glass doors so as to never
stop watching the volcano erupt, over
and under itself–––so many suns born in one day!
He could have cried standing outside the lobby.
That volcano and it’s so fucking beautiful.