Whatever and it’s yours,
and if you want an elegy for it, then that too,
funds, salvation, mathematical software for determining your future
emotional or gastrointestinal state, aquarium space and regular space, or digital,
or digitalis leading to comatose: a variety of spaces can all be yours.
For my love, for you, a tour, a hundred guided tours
through buildings long abandoned. Works, guns, spheres,
things rusting in your hands and on the floor.
Additionally, dogs: deaf danes, black pups, border
collies that come stuffed in boxes. All of actor Wil Wheaton’s
thoughts, collected. The world bursting ahead of this. And positions: on all fours,
clutching pens in fist, scrawling your name on the hardwood
that’s baked all day in sun. Sure. Connectors,
the sexiest man alive. Shimmering wifi everywhere.
Princes. Prints. And euthanasia: a hundred doors
opening in front of you until they curl up and close.
And yes. C’est oui. And wine. Manuals for response to wine
and how to respond to those who don’t respond to you
when under wine. Try Coors
instead. Some girls like ponies. Antique dress forms
and wingback chairs with your name burned into the wood
below the upholstery. Huge cats, and glass homes and stores
and office space. The density of things begins increasing
and I am stuck right here beneath the war that emanates from boors
who litter the television channels. Off and gone and elegy in less
than a second. A Kubrick theme. And feeds: jars and jars
of them in pantries everywhere. Something to eat, aquifers
returning water to the surface. Kittens. Gloss. Stars.
Runtime patterns. Songbirds’ songs. Bikinis. Steady states.