poem a la mode, how should we spend our lives — question —
i am bored, i am the autumn tilled earth in the country
and literature is the worm munching its way through the subterranean road
water flows through it so we can grow goods in the summer

photo glued with dust to the piano and afterwards found alive
in the provinces where parents handed out education
for the conservation of faith — believed it was better to come
to the big city with its great soirees toward the displacement of conscience

my soul: woman a la mode who’ll sleep with anyone
the girls aren’t true and neither are the violins
ballerinas twisted flowers ballerinas upside down
show us secrets stripped of their cotton ball leaves

on stage silence naked woman, the house uneasy, but not even one
honest thought to make you hurt, not even an actor to die.
the black in the moon swoops down (delicious) like the sparrow on the violin
and if you want my darling if you want i’ll pay you for a whim