by Greg Baysans

Poet X

Untitled Journal

     The tension in whose life was caused by the fact that he had failed to see the everyday necessity of poetry enacted in advertisements retwistedly-peating their lines and lies alive, he really didn't. It was tea tie terrible he how he see so suffered.
     The tension in whose life erupted in sudden spasms of godliness to land on the naked cliff's top and a broken back, how diddy dee did that he hie hoe happen and we what's be knee next to happen?
     The tension in whose life hid far in the forest of waking life spying on unparanoid he who reflected the condition of the nation by being thermometer with the rotting teeth of America, undue duress in the bee best see circum-sty-stances (and the awe fee awe fie awfullest, wooliest bulliest birds).
     The tension in whose life framed a boxing ring around his imagined interior, only he being boxing battling all night, wall day.
     The tension in whose life slew dragons of interior myth with a fire nearby and Neanderthals standing around be bye bow blathering.
     In whose life tension teemed with corpses in the blood's undercurrent currently being dee die dough ditty dragged out.
On the flip side of the
country existing in the
fictional country is the
poet who rewrote Robinson
as did someone Cervantes.
What's it about?
Where's it going?
Does it mean anything?

Is there beauty? suspense?
Are there characters?
Does the order matter?
What if?
How do you?
Will it play tricks? roll over?
Will it ever end?
Is it worth a second?
On the floor of the universe
which is the living room I.
Beside newspapers and ashtrays
which have history and will fossilize I.
Food and music in the making
which are transitory and so must I.
By which time the zeitgeist
hides even genitalia.
Moonscapes no longer novel.
Herbivorous, herbivorous.
It's raining tongues of flame.

By which time tomorrow
which it always will be, today.