before i devise a way to recapture
the solemnity of the dead tree,
i must capitulate to the gas-chamber guru
and its solvent romance.
not easily swayed, the past reminisces
of itself in chunks of butter,
brought to fruition by the
uselessness of plain milk.
i think you might even know 
the contents of my extents, but
an honest barber is a dead statistician is a
fed laboratory mouserat.
asides aside, climb our tree.
on its branches dangle star-spangled leaves.
caressed by the soft legs of innocuous 
insects and bugged thrusts of the southern wind,
we grow groveling walnuts,
full of trees.

early '99