Artifacts of Reference, No. 50

Ignis H.W.

Wikipedia Poem, No. 874

He bombs the fuse

in 1948 poppy as outdoors
were still import brought mr bush
great pleasure he still imports 
brought mr bush’s movements sport
brought mr bush player and often used it regular disease
began to baltimore
he began to concentrate
pouring in regular disease
beckoning to be on his desk in the concentrate
pulling on regular disease
beams a baltimore oriole
gamut with boat on the concentrate
perform it regular play for his hand
he swore in 1948 poppy was his wife
barbara often squeezed it regular at playtime
concentrate its put 
on regular disease beknighted captain of the game
even after vascular blew down his captain of egypt
to concentrate play it regular player
and he swore in texas on his first two baseballs at yale
as his sense of egypt to an olive oriole
even vascular disease became captain of humor
when he began to conch brought mr bush’s movements to sport
and his years as a spark in a gamut of boats
the fidelity nobody asked for brought mr bush great pleasure
he oiled his players for gristle sport
brought mr player to the asking game
even in texas even in texas
he was known in 1948 as fidelity — nobody asks to sock his wife
even in texas even in texas 
barbara often used regular disease concentrate
put it regular
played it in time
concentrate remember
bemoans the captain of humor
sport courts mr bush with great pleasure

and the light explodes.


Wikipedia Poem, No. 745

“Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba….” Hunter S. Thompson


contemporary show-offs hair and little punchy verbs
in all the right places some high round
oogleables sweet averroes retweets roxane gay

are we desirable astride rare machinery
life jackhammered by rounded-off cobbles wet at four a.m.
pardner don’t get on a bike blazing in medias res down a texas highway

i am the wet cobbles in the sun
set of the innocent machinery
of the life i think of in 1198

superb that i married lois lane
and her red-meat art
don’t come between my motorcycle and that beautiful girl

squeezed between us
three on a bike aflame down a texas highway
i am the machinery of life’s wet cobbles

that i will to live