Greetings
Instability is a crushing boor
except on certain Sundays
when the feet of nations walk blindly
in the mire of consequence, why
are we surprised when those supposed
entities, parties, forces, all the choirs
of power persist in doing what they know
we know is destroying them--it's the urchin
revolt writ large, bannered across the sky
o'er the squalling pit of composure.

I send you greetings, earthlings,
pitiable creatures who cannot even see
into the infrared or ultraviolet,
who no longer sense your own planet's
meridians of forces, who are blind at night
and cannot connect your inner worlds
with your perceptions of the outers.
You wonder that I speak English--we
have been monitoring your Star Trek--imagine
our surprise to find many alien languages
whispered in dark barrooms at the edges
of jungles and slums. We are still puzzled
by what you mumble about in churches
and the braying of your electronics hurts
our 33 1/3 ears. Nonetheless
the concubines of conscience inhibit
the pleadings of the grass.

We now return control of your set
game match, your conjunctions and
disturbances, your permutations and
inconveniences, to you,
who did not miss them.
This is what we wanted to know.
We will have no further contact
with your gray minds, your buzzing
fingers, dead skin.
Please arrange for our souvenir parkas,
Renoirs, partitas, late quartets
and ball point pens to be sent
to this address. Didn't you know
that you are a living time capsule
buried in this abandoned neighborhood?
Turn on your TV, and
think about it.

1/30/99