I am wearing the bride’s underpants.
I am sensing vegetable soup
in my semisolid state of California
where the children of the inferno
hold out their votive spare change cups
and the armadillos of the inferno
don’t have a chance.
My tetrahedron is a chiseled meltdown,
my tv listing. Even my passive construction’s
in a restricted hard hat area.

This is not the river,
it’s an explanation of the river
that replaced the river.
You may think you’re breaking a window
but you’re breaking an explanation of a window
with the explanation of a rock.

You can know my velocity or my mass,
never both. My dog has a lick wound.

It’s a long dark hallway we all walk down
in Hotel Nothingness and at the ned
is a room with your irrational number on it.
Your private cellar
where you can make a radio from a potato.
Even a rotting diary is a kind of battery.

All I really need is a nice echo to say hello to,
speakers in every room. In one room
it’s always snowing because the reception’s bad,
in another the lover’s always preparatory fallout.
One room bad red room,
another warmers peck the wet episteme.

When you die, your new body is entirely symbols.
Love me, love my lilac-valence isoprene.
All the early investigations were severely burned.
You can only get so close to me.
Even their notebooks have to be
locked in a lead box.