Laughter; Render, Remember

Vastly lost



on hunt to the

beautiful woman

with open mouth

a little king writes in little hand of society, of humans, of letters, jokingly.


To fall, to flee—nothing of god stands in his muling.


Choosing beauty,

                a burn

belies his choice.


A facet of my souvenir

is its disposability—memorabilia

an even due—if I plaster it with once-agains

as many times as I remember myself so well

I might delight in thought.

And my remembrance of every member of the party

as many as ten times each—a good memory—

& the jolly life

wears on me as a cue to send notes freely forth

from all the aging parts of my body.

Count my thoughts & count my recourses;

all the beams of light in the world are unmade—

Count me solved by all unmade

that which means all my joy.