It’s snowing on the demented
Lions denting
This museum’s entrance.
To call it
A library would
Swerve space like
A claustrophobe pissing down his spine
To open his nerve.
Steal yourself.
This the city’s
Biggest garbage
Pail fire is our purest future,
Vision in
Direct contact with its line and curve,
Oxygen escaping objects with its
Moxie intact
Because the noun itself’s blue
So more equal to its fuel.
You can hear a chopper chomping
At gravity’s knob
Somewhere overhead
In approach, mumbling
ode load mode ode
In perfect time
But in this dream there are
No people pressed
Between its pages.
Only one thing’s always
Itself a weapon, so
You see when you clatter its cage.