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Socks & dirty apples,
strewn throughout
the yard,
I found a garden
in the trash,
A plastic hand,
a bottle,
Roses in the
Ash;
it is an
Anthouse they are
building, an
Arthouse
with
Out imagination,
A cathedral of
sensation
Rising;
They fought
The power in the
flowerpot,
they
Thought they were
enlightened,
that
Truth is like a
hornet
Trapped inside a honeybee,
a perpetual
Uncertainty,
wrapped around a wannabe,
Many-fabled
mystery;
it is
Against the law to disagree.
There is no present like the history.
My heart is melting like a Christmas tree.
9.30.26
