THE DEATH OF SHERWOOD ANDERSON
He was on a CRUISE ship eating hors d’oeuvres
when he swallowed the GREEN toothpick
which punctured his INTESTINE causing the
peritonitis which CORRUPTED his blood and
catapulted him into an ALIEN grave. Or was it
bald SADNESS? Unhappiness upended by
misery? Desolation made GREY by despair?
Whatever the cause, HE died, like the Bible in
Mauritania, like a MOUSE in a vial of ammonia,
like a retired coal miner on VACATION in the Alps,
like NOVELTY in an old-age home, like streptococcus
in outer space, like panache in SUNDERED life.
FULL OF MAD HOPE
full of mad hope
we dash into the street
leap into the fray
and enter splendiferous lists
full of mad hope
we move from the west
fill our heads with information
and break open the infrangible text
full of mad hope
we fashion a mask
fling up the shade
and rename the earth
full of mad hope
we ascend Swiss mountains
search African caches for gems
and dance in fields of high lightning
full of mad hope
we put ourselves in history
we teach what we love to marry what we grieve
and wrap artifacts of infancy in longevity ice
full of mad hope
we pull ourselves up to the light
revisit the dead in search of severance
and see in the future our previous face
full of mad hope
we buy a set of unique keys
take the jobs that soften our souls
and answer the intoxicated calls of our will
