Band Names pt 1

Possible troupe titles:
--Sky Pony
--The Broadleaf Indecision
--Gordon's Precision Incisions
--Eric's Band
--Saurus
--The Pew Ponies
--SIFT
--Jew Wanna Party

Fish and Wildlife

Pony race
I got 10 bucks on Secretariat
of the Interior
if I win I'll decorate my hat
like a veteran
and not the Aryan kind that heals
I've got a dog
but it's not the kind that heels
it pretty much just does its own thing.

A black lab
pitch dark except for the uranium -
probaby should turn a light on, bro
wouldn't want to burn your bunsen
or God forbid knock over a beaker.
your eyesight isn't that good
to begin with

And to end with, carrots don't
really help with that problem.
I think it's a myth, and not even
one the Greeks and Romans believe.
That doesn't bode well for any myth,
but apparently you can't see that.
Get some glasses, you blind fuck.

That was overly harsh - we can't
all have perfect vision. Just get
surgery. An incision, maybe two
and you'll be seeing rainbows and
snowflakes in no time. You can stare
at the moon but not at the sun.

Cray / Baked Goods

That's right, buddy, them
crawdaddies are all the same
(the Cray's short for
crayonpony,
roach of the
cock-a-doodle sea).

& milksteak with the fox?
surrender epithets about stockings
if your foxhole is for finding;
The hunt was glorious.

And the verses:
ah, well, let me be terse
in saying that sprockets cause
more problems than we give them due.

I too am averse to
verse after verse of petty
rhymes, puns and wordplay. Which is
why I strangely don't rhyme but let butter
run from one rum concoction to the next
and set my sights on the prize:
baked goods. We aren't that
thirsty after all.

Time & Time Again

Still, its
frightening to the
falcon down the road

Or should I say
falcon-groan
like an animal
(or a boy)
issuing his call.

Yeah call, not
time, not twine.
I telephone him time
& again. Guess that's
it. Green everywhere.

Time
& time again,
everybody getting high. Time
& time
and time again.

Latrell is Dead

I've tried to tell them time and time again. Latrell... is... dead. He is not alive anymore.

Everybody I told about Latrell was star-bound, like, "Wow. Latrell."

( Bursts from the furnace north
a few fires short of a hearth )

A million idioms
eaten up by the moment. Latrell is dead no joke,
she said, like, this whole thing about dying isn't funny
because we don't believe in it
why else our Modern Medicine?

Though Latrell is dead it doesn't change the fact that
America does not believe in death
and is therefore doomed to
discover it, one day;

Witness Latrell.

Guns and Guns

Pepperspray deodorant
it burns like a rug
Simon says
shut the fuck up

in a nice way,
of course. Still, its
frightening to the
falcon-boy next door

Or should I say
falcon-buoy
like an ant
out of tine.

Yeah tine, not
time, not twine,
I could spin yarns
but i won't

I could till soil too,
but I won't. I don't
grow motherfucking beans
and I don't sharecrop.

I don't sell drugs
at least I don't now.
I sell rugs, but not
for a living.

Crayfish

Crawfish? Crawdads?
They're all the same?
Why??? Crayfish is short
for crayonponyfish - truly
the cockaroach of the sea.

The milksteak, best believe
I get it with raw jellybeans
and white wine, in a box. Drinking
with a fox, her knee-high socks
pulled up altogether too high.

Why can I never flow from
verse to verse? I'm not averse
to trying, but I am averse to
verse after verse of petty
rhymes, puns and wordplay.

Fuck it, fuck trying
A motto to live by

Clay #2

This clay--portraiture. Clay filings in the mop closet.
Rush the locks. Let them turn. Illumine
the drugs on youth. Their pasttime. Their lurking
essence, evervesence. Youth on drugs. That
sweet ocean of pot, sweeter than sugar and
sharp like burnt grass or lust become sadness,
murky. That's why you should open a window
more often. Fresh air is wonder &
cold--

Clay #1

shine! --the snow glass;
pepper; freedom; Lance?
The Lancet, the man, grabbings
in the cafeteria. Working out. Grunting.
Who hasn't been pet?
The children
(child's child's child, mind you)

oh Greg
St. Stanislaus
oh reverie
sunbeam

proceed

was snow less white
without her purchase?

every prevarication prevail
in deciding, when drunk,
to get a public massage in Memphis

sequestered in Alleghany
subpoenaed upon Allerton
Tip-Top-Tap goes the Water Tower
& all her memories of tomorrow

oh dear the pelican,
pale stork of the moment
look out empty on the grass
and cry with a frail beak:
'Proceed.'

Drake Monsoon's Diary Entry #1

:::::Her legs
were like features
of an ancient rainbow sun-place
someplace below where it oughta be
spelling it out, bees and rainbows

(your stems were
features of a desert landscape)

regard a man
replete with youth, all his cards in his hands,
splayed out like so, with a girl, receiving fellatio.

He has the sweet vine of the world.
God’s redolent head rains down on him
pure sunshine of the oceanic dream
and everything was chloroformed
a neat tremendous nightmare
nobody remembers

regard a man
sitting on his couch
feeling groovy,
wearing a fedora

<>
Julia’s trite poem: “The Hat. The old hat / was very sad. / It held his head / like a box of lead.”

<>
Scrawled genius
glorious corollary empties whole jars of coal:
everybody believes everything you’ve ever said.:::::

Amerika Kandy-Flake Shotgun

i don't want to get caught up
on this image

of a buxom teen
wielding a shotgun

but let's be honest
America arouses

even the prudest
police boyscout

the poisonwood duty cauliflower
his exquistive existence

programs him
to follow without pretense.

And then there was everything else.

Before Thursday, After Thursday

I live without you
like a Jew inhabiting
somebody else’s corner
your aura: Kosher
like a dill wonder world
awoke on Sunday morning to see everything in its right place
garden here, furniture over there
like an overt pumpkin or an orchard of a television movie
about learning how to hope in
causes worthy.

People, therein
on the lawn and inbetween
covert conversations, mooring pathways
from her ship of life to his
tree-house

mists of ephemeral
yesterdays
like stale oatmeal on Monday
becomes deeper and better partners
without anybody knowing...

Expeditions

“We were meant to be / We were supposed to be / But we lost it…”

Avril Lavigne, ‘My Happy Ending’

Outside it's raining and -- I'm sure it's been noted before -- it reminds me of tears. Of course it's raining somewhere in the world. Of course somebody's crying. And, of course, I might just too, what the hell?

You ring around the rosie so many times you end up like this: a lost ruffian, just lost, fucking about in the woods (such is the judgment of outside observers) but at least enjoying it along the way, yessir.

That is one step forward. At the end of the Purdue days, nothing was very good. Douglas got tired of being the only man in the fountain. And the fountain had stopped flowing. Not much but cracked cement and spraying water, but not the celebratory kind -- rather the excretory, the mistaken, unexpected spurts and children shrieking in mock horror (or real, who knows the difference?).

It was, so. Whaddaya gonna do about it

that's what Paul Simon would like to know

So I sit here, resolved to write more prosaically than usual, because most don't seem to understand poetry, and the dank diffidence it allows to bloom, but--here, soldier, you may be on to something. All I'm gonna do RIGHT NOW is sit down on my couch and write and there's not a goddam thing in the world you can do to change that. To change me. I cannot be changed I am the self-seeking goddess womb of the Earth. Mother Mary and Brother Douglas all rolled in to one.

There is, of course, one minor detail I'd like to get out of the way. So from at least August 8th until late September, a solid six weeks or so, I didn't smoke pot. Thought it would help clear the air, allow me to be less "depressed," get my "shit together" and get going and feel good, or at least better.

I started up again last week.

My initial conclusion is that: damn, the stuff really ain't that bad for you. In fact if I look at my level of writing and artistic output it's definitely higher this past week than general… certainly way above or almost possibly shortly equaling in size all that I “accomplished” during my weed-free experiment. I thought the weed was contributing to sleeping way too much but once again, this habit showed no signs of getting better and may have even gotten worse, actually significantly worse, during the time without it. I cannot explain this but feel justified in smoking again at least for the time being. Marijuana consists of unpollinated flowers, used by humans for thousands and thousands of years. It's more than you can say for Prozac, Xanax, and all these other synthetic neurotransmitter-altering drugs we take without flinching, actually thinking it's good for us. Both my parents for example have strongly encouraged me to take antidepressants, in fact, because in truth they think it's the best for me. Part of me has thought: well, maybe they're right. Certainly there is something deeply real, troubling depression thing. It has had me by the feet and I don't even want to explain where I am now, just the small nascent bits of insight I seemed to have accumulated in these pasts years and months.

I'm a 25-year-old gorilla. Who will now, for the sake of science, smoke a bowl of cannabis and see how that changes things. I doubt it will but I felt it important to get out these few trenchant thoughts while I was "sober," though sobriety offers little calm to a person whose troubles have not been solved in a sober state. It's really irrelevant--the point is seeing the results, producing the results. And here it goes:

Pack a bowl of good quality cannabis. The unsmoked smell of the plant is quite remarkable and sagacious; redolent and pleasing. Before getting high I can tell you it smells like opportunity, wild promise, and reminiscent of walking into a bank, deep underground, though somehow still lit by bright sunshine, shimmying to get a piece of this holy place’s currency, fruit of the dark magic Earth.  

It smells like approaching rain or distant skunk. But it doesn't want us to get away... no, the cannabis plant long ago learned that we like her delicate redolence, the slightly-bewildering magic and a million generations of re-birth, flowers and buds and hippies and high school kids and punk rockers and actresses and waiters and midnight lovers in the park, all passing around and surviving on the glory of this punk magic weed, marijuana.

Now I'll start smoking.

So i've done it. The magic spring whispers of the plant become impregnant women (meaning impractical teen's out shopping pregnant). Magic lantern slides. Like I was saying earlier, the past few days have been like a re-purposing, a re-branding: Do I Really Want To Go To Law School more than I'd like to do anything else?

I don't think so.

So that perhaps helps explain all the sleeping and the crass boredom and fake tears and real misery that I just keep kidding and hiding myself away from.

Look Main, we got it. You're miserable already. Nothing is right and you're never happy. You don't want to go running or take the initiative to join athletic leagues and do much to seek out new friends. As much as you're improving you still are moving slowly.

And at the same time, reign in the sly motive, that entity entitled "fake anger." It's not the real kind of angry that actually makes you get up to do something drastic; it's the feeling -- he or she -- which says, "I could theoretically pick up that TV and break it, would what good would it do?" Or more simply: yes, I'm angry enough to get out there and run a marathon just like that, fix it all with one big punch.

Okay, okay, so he doesn't like running. This isn't the goddam runner's club already. And we know it cannot all be done so quickly. He knows he prefers basketball. But there always minor obstacles which seem like marjor obstacles. He has to call up people, or oh, get an overpriced pass to the student gymnasium only to be constantly reminded YOU ARE NOT A STUDENT HERE, or anywhere, BRO.

That's all part of it, goddam it. Part.

My words speak for themselves,

but what of it

Hammond & His Purchase

The man below this sentence,

just bought a new cellular phone.

Disclaimer, Yo

Here's an important disclaimer I gotta share with y'all in real prose for once: read this crazy shit at your own risk. Cause this stuff right here, this shit is crazy! You know what I mean when I say dat? Cra-Zayyyyyyyyyyy!!! mother-lover you gotta step back before you get yo ass dusted, playa!

But seriously guys it's really potent gangster memories
(already breaking my own rule)
about things that were important
to the kind of parties only ruined by
self-impinging metaphor balls
just hopping out and horrifying everyone!!!

Eric's Freakout!

1. Before the Hospital


Here's what Eric said:

'I too had an abscess on my molar
the "doctor" solar-sore and obsessed
with excess said:
"You been riding the
bipolar express?" '



(watch me reverse standard rules!)

'So I checked in
to an Excedrin clinic
look at me look at him look at
Eric
that chill escalator all moving up on me
believing i'm a pepper worm
or somebody's effluent noxious waste.'

Geppetto's Oath or Someone's Personal Ad

You must name your dad Sycamore
or Mulberry if he acts girly.

I'm looking for a hip single gal
in her early thirties (i'm tweny five-
years-old, and swervy-curvaayyyy)

(there i go, all Mulberry)

But what I really mean to say is
I am a man who knows
how to snipe Jacktails,
and I ain't afraid of shit!

Nice slacks!

every time we lunch,
become brainiacs –
I didn’t say tongue because why say
got-‘em-back, or "Hey, nice slacks!"

(or "Shark attack!" so suck on that)

I’m outta town; I’m out of whack
when the stones look at me, they crack.

Snack on worms and pelicans. Warm me
with your "Them. It was not us but
Them."

The oldest level game
growing at your ear like something fear
some

thinking DNA has already written every
curve of every body of every religion let us fly
on into the wilderness of this crazy religion fever
flying red, flying green, every color but the color of dungaree
(blue lives those lives because of me!)

so just please believe me and let it be
we are becoming dangerous already. Please respect
the way I communicate. Please
believe in cinnamon; it is a flavor
uxorious to the point of
being the last "U" in the dictionary and a word which means
"someone like George Bush, who expresses excessive love
fer theyrrrrrrrrrrrre wiiife, Nancy!"

(what a boondoggle, dictionary friends!)

A flavor like love-me-in-specific-winter-situations way
that says: i'll bring you a Red Stripe and we'll watch
the United States Ski Team tank the other assholes
in the Winter Olympics, sponsored by CocaCola
and brought to you by
Sagittarius sex symbols
everywhere!

The Bipolar Express

I'm gonna name my kid Sycamore
or Mulberry if it's a girl.
Nectarine, if she's blonde.

I had an abscess on my molar
the "doctor" said it was
from solar excess, I replied:

You been riding the
bipolar express,? Alas
I digress - seriously,

I might name my kid Baltimore
like the Ravens, incidentally riding
the Kyle Boller express

straight to second place
in their division
which is not at all bad, I still really
like their chances for the wild card.

The Polar Express Motif Begins

Walking home was filtering through orchids. At 5 AM I left the green den. It was gloriously foggy. The city lights and buildings were straight out of Polar Express--Welcome to the North Pole. A Christmas-lidded parlor yonder, and over there, the community center, where you took pottery classes with your girlfriend, who isn't anymore your girlfriend.

Moving on, down the road, we'll ignore the Peking Garden, and go to my car. The Santa dorms in the distance are quite spacious-looking, brilliant-lit and lovely.

To be continued. 

It used to be

Swimming in the orchard;
Swimming in the rain;
Swimming in the flood!

It kicks in—so, like a
shot of vodka to the throat
I believe in somebody’s vision
of holy—it wasn’t mine

My eyes have once again proven that
your cloud, blanket and my 50 cents
are raining on your front lawn.

Carry on, until it’s gone.

It always was
after all.

Rad Ideas

1) Life is the result of unprotected sex; the result of the best feeling you can have, during the act which you cannot perform unless you want to have a child (i.e. create life)... or are for sure your girlfriend is taking birth control medication... or are a lesbian.

2) New Restaurant for Champaign, IL: "Fuck Illinois." This fine restaurant/bar would serve as the hotspot for all a manner of non-Illini fan. Possible motto: "A great place to watch your team lose to Illinois," or something like that, to compensate for the whole "This-place-is-called-'Fuck-Illinois'" thing.

3) More later.

My Dear God Pastrami

My pastrami is off the chains, young-blood,
this movie's about freed pasta, the kind that'll cost ya
because it isn't slave labor honey,
we keep our liberty about us;

like scarves or cloaks,
you'll find me in muddlin sheets
meaning swaddling clothes
sheets for the dead.
A baby arrived for adult business
parallels an
infant scoping the porn industry
and finding it wanting.

Why I'll Learn Mandarin

I should have said
"...became a diminished lake,"
which is what it all becomes
in the eyes of the old

I smelled my China-maid hat today and imagined it smelling of its home country. Myself, the hat and I had a little discussion: can I embue the hat with my essence regardless of its material? I mean, I like the hat. But there are details: Preferably I would know where the material came from... the patch of land, the grower, etc. That is the natural way of things. And fuck you if you don't agree. Also, what soul does it have? Were the plants grown in good conditions, those which gave this hat it's material? What kind? What color green are they? What type of farmers are they? Kind? Honest? Does it matter?

Of course not. Going too far there. But you see what I mean. The point is: where was the hat made? By whom? Were they pregnant? Do they hold hands on first dates there? Can you really only have one child?

All our materials
come from foreign meals
and flights of fancy
we shall never comprehend.

Oh the hat. So the point is: is the hat just an empty vessel, in which I can instill it with my essence? Eventually the hat becomes "mine." Obviously, from a financial point of view, it's mine. But spiritually--not quite yet. For one thing it doesn't probably smell like me yet. I haven't "broken it in."

Is all this just bullshit? Things I think
retain value because we give them it
ghosts of spiritual handshakes
around every corner.

More Like PolterGeist Reservoir

You'll find PolterGeist Reservoir in Indianapolis. She was birthed by underpaid immigrant laborers in 1943 by damming Fall Creek. This breezy beer pond became the second largest lake in Indiana, providing residents 7 billion gallons of water (all of it with a healthy trace of atrazine). Nobody asked the salamanders what they thought about the loss of habitat, but we hear they're... dead.

The damming also killed all a manner of veteran woodpiper and sand-creek fir, whose heavenly (and intoxicating) redolence was never sniffed again.

Clarence PolterGeist, a former owner of the Indianapolis Water Company who foresaw a deficit in Indianapolis's water supply, first envisioned PolterGeist Reservoir to preemptively address the problem. Unfortunately, a gang of cocaine-addled hydraulic workers attacked PolterGeist's mansion in Carmel. They succeeded in scaring his family and burning down his house. PolterGeist was never seen again. Some say he became... a spirit.

Geist Reservoir

Geist Reservoir is a reservoir in Indianapolis, Indiana, U.S., constructed in 1943 by damming Fall Creek to provide water for Indianapolis. Upon completion, Geist Reservoir was the second largest lake in Indiana providing approximately seven billion gallons of water.

Geist Reservoir was named after Clarence Geist, a former owner of the Indianapolis Water Company who foresaw a deficit in Indianapolis's water supply, and envisioned Geist Reservoir to preemptively address the problem – but not without a casualty. Planning for the reservoir began as early as 1913, when hydraulic engineers estimated that White River and Fall Creek would not provide enough water for the increasing needs of Indianapolis. Geist gradually bought some 5,000 acres in Fall Creek Valley in the 1920s and 1930s, including the small town of Germantown, which today lies at the bottom of the reservoir.

Although controversial, the reservoir was completed in 1943, five years after Clarence Geist's death. In the 1960s further controversy arose over plans for commercial and residential development in the area around the lake. A proposal in the 1970s to triple the size of the reservoir was defeated, and a housing boom began in the lake area. In recent years the Geist area has experienced rapid growth. The area is noted for its unique topography and the reservoir. Reservoir.

The dam which creates Geist Reservoir is located at the lake's southern end. Fed by Fall Creek on the north, the lake overflow is directed into the creek again at the south. The reservoir is mostly rather shallow (ten feet or less). The area has undergone rapid development, and many high-valued homes now line the reservoir's waterfront. Including Peyton Manning and Peyton's bi-sexual friend named Janice.

Poltergeist

Flowing like a free
style
reach for the dial

reach for the vial-
a vile concoction
of whiskey and beer

and whiskey, as well.
my relationship with vodka
is on the rocks, you see

I keel over - or, more aptly,
I try not to vomit. There are
people around.

Rightfully stifling my right to revival,
but I'm a lifer, rife with survival.
Triflers, travelers - meet my rifle.

Call me a criminal, smoothie king
I was suspended for scooting
too close to the front of the class

professors need their personal space

Scorched Unicorn

Larry, what'd you do with the hammers?
Asked Ed, who was looking like a dead-ham
dad, it's the dead hamster alert,
everybody freeze,
it's the internet speaking. Don't believe
anything you read, just some
of it, some of it's bound to be entertaining
or, hey, Ned, how 'bout a microcosm
meaning he's another steamblood
regression to the unicorn state
humbled, no blood
one horn,
magic.

Lemon Pepper

This fucking morphine drip- I don't think it's working
stir-fried muffintops, Tom Gugliotta,
maybe it's working.

Cold pony jumping jacks
I've got the waffle house blues
kayaks and canoes

slivers of jam
dam rivers
and livers.

Snubbery

I had an idea that as a prank my law school friends and I would snub someone in our group of friends. Just completely ignore them in the halls and in class, ignore phone calls, texts, gchats, the whole deal. Total alienation. I really feel like Jason – um, I mean the person we would snub – wouldn’t take long to confess to something horrible he’d done. He would take me aside after a day, maybe two of the snubbery, and say something like “dude, is this about me farting in your toaster? It was a joke!”

Mangrove Ascot, Possibly

Everybody seemed
to remember me. As if
I had some solid selection
where i'm posed like a brilliant root
to the hoi paludal, swamps emerging
out of every suggestion.

Every breath, indeed, becomes reduced
to something understandable;
imagine, for instance, that she's a new bride
a-shower in her matrimony
glaring but forgetting
for whom her glare recedes.

Animal, OK?

More than it has ever meant. There are large levers
where the people lived before, where they people the
ledgers of the brass war; the tally still mounts.
Like slowly the crows they reveal
(of/from what i hear)
they are shrewdness moreover animal
akin to none before displayed
or whosoever mount whereupon
we declaim a claim upon you!

Frail Boy In Woods

Frail boy in the cedars
talks about Michigan Wolverines
(not the animal but the football team).

Drake in the AM

Every morning, Drake Googled himself, then looked in the mirror, then went to the bathroom. First he'd make himself three to four cups of coffee. And drink a beer or two. Then he'd jog. A great, phantasmal jog, sweat profoundly effusing from his joints, his rancorous heart, his long problematic legs. They were more like chisels then legs... they were too long, they swayed to one side or the other. In short he had trouble getting not where he wanted to go, but deciding upon anything. It was if his heart were in remission, recovering from a glaring transmission of something as deadly as cancer or as innocuous as childbirth.

In other words, Drake was a maniac. After the 7 AM sweat-run, he'd take a shower and pound out an orgasm or three in the confines of his dusty apartment. He didn't believe in pornography and instead relied upon the graphic interior of his mind, all swelling and contingent upon strange continents for its fragile alignment. The jogging helped this all, of course.

Then, around 8 O'clock, he'd start talking to himself.

"Time get out of the shade of the weeds," was a common cat-call to get the morning started. "Time to pull myself out of these acrimonious suggestions of lament."

Then, he'd run down the stairs, careful to duck lest he hit his head on a jutting short part of the ceiling, and explode with laughter upon bottoming out. He routinely couldn't stop himself and tripped through the glass window. For this reason he was badly scarred and nobody could stand to look at his face, always scarlet with duress and battle.

Eventually he got up, dried off the blood, and went to Aroma, a local coffee shop hot spot amongst the sexually active and middle-aged laborers.

Touching & Reading (PG)

Change my ways.
When I’m trying to get something done, I pray
for better luck next time.

Or when I try to explain I instead rely on magic
to bely my failings: fall, the season
of the tailback

covered-up gardens and a betrayal we couldn’t stomach
astonished

we do not rely on ourselves,
but are stewards of something great:
a deeper cannon,
a stauncher true
wherein nobody is shot
but our dreams just continue into day;

Perhaps
a song somewhere will catalogue
everything I’ve ever thought
and I’d have no reason
to any longer live.

Meanwhile, the boys
are playing at the anatomy game
in the corner, can’t you see?

We believe in the colors true
which relieve us of our
doubts and shouts and strands of cord
are falling on us now.

Whoever reads this
touches a person.

Murder

There's nothing funny about murder.
But tonight, I killed a man.
I think his name was Jordan.

Not only do I not regret it,
but I will forever wish we had never met.
Which means: I have never loved.

Everything Burns

I owe no excuse to anybody

this pile of dead saplings is livid enough
alive enough, groused ruffling
those who disturb are disturbed,
you know...

so i light the pile and let the whole
goddam thing go. nobody respects
you until the blaze rends, & oh,
how they stare! when up in flames
it goes

Adam Smith's Invisible Hand

"It takes a chicken-thief to catch a
chicken-thief," said FDR
about Joe Kennedy. That's actually true,
she said...
hello.

& when you said,
"I don't know. What is it?" I know you meant,
"I don't know what it is." Meaning:
don't take me to the opera
if I don't wanna go, honey.

Talking about rats here. How culpable are
the feeder funds? That word has several meanings.
Culpable. Legal or moral?
Not illegal unless they were directly involved.
The prior court decisions said they weren't culpable.
But we know they are immoral.
They do little research and fall for the same thing
that we fall for, us non-smelling masses.

Project Jennifer

Jason's sister.
Shoulda known.
Wouldn't count. Could have grown
plants this summer but I didn't. Might've
saved some face but I didn't: YOU ARE MY
FACE, she said, in the sandy windy and exclaimed,
"You don't even need water, here!"
(She meant for bathing)

And it wasn't about Manganese nodules after all,
was it, Mr. Hersh? Not those little presents
of chemistry fresh and unsettling and intimately
slow though they grow... they are alive, as alive
as Russian submarines and Dan Marino's Id.
The bottom of the ocean, Mister Hughes.
The last place you would expect.