FARRAGO

SCREEEECHCHUNCRASH!!!

And the empty sky rolls over

with a ponderance of silence

on a warm day in December.

Two metal entities occupy

the same space at the same time

and leak fluids onto the asphalt.

SILENCE.

Chaos slides her hand up

the thigh of what used to be

and makes love to the ashes

spewn into the air. Crazy

lights flash, limp bones,

empty eyes refuse to close

and stay closed. Nearby,

at a table outside Le Bistro

La Ville, a gaggle of Philistines

argue the value of something

Renoir said with red, and other

marketable goods.

Down the street a rowdy crowd

breathes deep the stench

of some politician’s breath,

unaware that nothing has changed

unaware that everything is in flux

but always remains the same.

Waiter! Waiter!

Another cup of coffee,

please.