Well naturally, it’s on the house!
As you attend to things
And I the mice and the menagerie,
Some someone lesser waters weeds
And feeds the cat while you’re away.
It’s got to be this way, so soon, so little left to say.
Nothing’s well that ends well here. When you return,
In measured measures, tell’em all to hang, let’em burn
What’s left to rearrange exactly what it is you like: those weasels, toads,
And folios and some strained poesy for perpetuity, and as it were
Some few dear items stored until the day you tire of tinsel, earaches,
And all that breaking wind to trump the tempests–
You will, you know you will, and then what?
Where’s the bottom, where the arbour hole,
…and who needs all those nuts?
Ask hucksters what they want and wander
Through oblivion to the source of specious theories,
Forecasts, and teapot tempests; reliquaries
That confuse Gertrude and her latest husband are set to thunder
In the index of both their worlds. The times are now aligned
To spend, to risk the whole at will. In the end, what binds
All capital are not the markets but the printing press–refined,
Its produce consigned as wallpaper in the study, and echoes of 1939
Followed closely on the air, subterfuge and incidentals
In the immanent reign of night–note the accent from the fireflies
That given space and stage enough are harmless as butterflies
And the common moth, winged creatures, given credentials
In an incremental vacuum. “Where’s the luminary of the age,”
They say, to feast his pen on renewable rites of slavery and sages?