When weavers take up their long, spooled hoagies
and dynamite out doomed salads, everyone chirrups
like they mean to be taken. Feverish bagpipe noises.
Twelve selves enter the acropolis. We each design a
domination room! We were, I think, designers of pre-
domination architecture. Some day, Roland Barthes
will denude hieroglyphically the language of this sign:
severest shrug-orbit-musked office of the Zero-chamber.
Wake and ensnare the baked brie! The tapas-apparition
in inspired towns, like Dacula in Georgia, like Soddy Daisy,
a Quaker heart outpost in Tennessee, like Sharon,
Pennsylvania, wafted bas-relief-style edifice. What strange
makeup she dreams of during her Mardi Gras-saddled swoons;
October madness. Antoine Behemoth cradled one sad
swoonsman, whispering, “Let my people get down and get their
movements going.” And most of them did.
