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.