There is an Indian restaurant by
the subway with a green blue hue, I can’t
write a sonnet with Protestant work
yawning breath? Yes, yes, yes, I smell
the city’s yawning breath and brawny breadth.
The satanic panic ensues in my
sinew, thank you Ronald Reagan, tear down!

Now that’s a good point, murky forgotten
halls, a blue Monday melody and
social phenomenon, non-work, non-marriage
to the deaths of despair and depths of my
chair. Why write a sonnet when the next man
intermingles his mind, body, and
spirit? Yeah, that’s the spirit, austere it!