Some work of noble note
No none
Why should the world note
The work of one among seven billion

Fame resides where the ghost ones go
It rises and falls upon the currents
Of a pear-shaped globe
Trickling the edges of a four-cornered circle

Tracing the frantic oscillation
Of an algorithm
Shooting in waves
From a senile tyrant’s workshop

Warm wet days lurch from lull to crisis
Cumulonimbus blitzkrieg
And mornings absorbed in drainage
And the settling of timbers

As it fled the robin made a cry
That I had never heard it make before
The barred owl called in broad daylight
Cars raced loudly on never-yet trodden streets

Licentious gnats
Gathered in their nebulous swarms
Barely conscious alive and dead before sunrise
Their inert eggs overwintering in the sand

This sickly Spring
This April fossilized in song and tale
Flowers that look like pictures of flowers
Spiky waves of generality

Remnants of flowers
Gelatinous corpses
Curtains for secret ovules
Trees and shrubs festooned with roadkill

Who’s to say and who knows know
Who understands intelligence
If the work were noble
You wouldn’t care about note

And thus the busy sulker introverts
The ghostly paradigm
Enacts the immemorial script
Devours the indigestible vague procedures

Not bile more like phlegm
This apathetic phantom cramp
Resinous vaporous accretion
Cooked in a dun tar spleen

These fragments serve no structural function
But only establish the interstices
Wherefrom waxy roots
Draw insufficient sustenance

So keep yourself to yourself
Do not expose your hollowness
Discretion is the better part
Or keep babbling in the rain