All the babies were behaving as if they were moons,
Crawling out of seashells, stuffed blind as turkeys.
They smelt of the flat fever of love, with chancres
Born of Vanilla Bean WY, or Sewer Stop AK.
We brought them up to believe in wombats fed on
Shroud thighs, with crowds of crying turtles, &
Peasant armies of hymn singing, drug-ridden geckos,
All singing "Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani."
In our town we have widows from Arsy Versy UT
watering proud buttocks with their tears,
witches who without consultation might let us off
at the dump at Pork Chop MO or Dog Stool IL,
And a blind (but healthy) love for sweet truffles.
They claim we come out of Tootie Fruit ME or Walleye OR
filled in part with the Breadfruit Conspiracy
to petition the gods with marble flies
to stop smelling up Newton's Third Law of Generations
with the sycamore of love. We begged them
To leave us singing "Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani."
In conclusion, I should like to report that our brains
Are now pickled & dried with love, & are thus weighted
In units of filial darkness. Our watches separate time
From space (in planetary feet) & thus put us on the
Very last train to Bugger Bean OH or Assgrasp LA,
All singing "Om Mani Padme Hum, Om Mani."--- C. A. Amantea