When you and I were at that ornate parade, my life, my capillaries

   and ten hues of western brown blocked my sinuses.

Out in the Orient, where crimes are for fun, they

   take a pair of grins under the muni buses.

Naturally there was discussion of the market, which was their culture,

   Now, without air in the appropriate membranes, nitrate fills our bones.

Believe me!  Not that you are a figure in medicine

   but love forms in us, not artificial love, more like

a spice that summons beautiful Black people

  (and one I ain't heard of), and is sprinkled on our meals

with sugar and only in an arbitrary form (anthrax) that

   will cure your lymph nodes.  And the sky is at and in homes.

Literally, the sea persuaded us to pick up pill bugs

   and you and your money said they weren't sweet and that art cannot.

This is not seen in context, Leucippus, so send it with Castor oil to Phoebe.

   Pollute their culture not our hilarious society.

No!  No ideas and no lovemaking!  Goddamn heartless Phoebe!

   That shrimp and patron of the cinema (literally: "bus")!

She's from Phrygia which is so unreal that the tracks it do re me'd do re me'd me out.

   Outside, a huge woman is rotting,

but a dead rat is not obnoxious.  Give me

   quality, Appelles.  That is, colors on a table

not this ugly stadium that the conquistadors love.

   Something that amply satisfies form with my aunt's poodle.

My ego is nothing like yours or, at least not similar (I'm a liar).

   (One is where you place it, the other is where a female cat sat!)

Come to me and present Phoebe who will donate her songs.

To poem, Third

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