My bulldozer Kreuznach radiated sludge through burnooses and some asphalt zeugmas fantasized by crickets in an echolocating mood. No wonder is imbedded in taupe scribbles, just a surfeit of lampreys, of lamasteries. These kewpiedolls batten on bat blood while something bewildered underwater keeps jumping ashore.

Finally I plunge in prescient orchids. On the bedcovers I keep an obliquity-of-the-ecliptic plane for some fakery bakery I frequent. Induction-inducing syllogisms have been wheeling over Dharma Creek — between labial obbligatos of Maria Dolores lookalikes and pranksters snifting dystopian (or ‘Bakstian,’ if you will, or ‘post post-it’) solenoids, between shore-saunterers of nonchalance and wind-whipped bazookameisters, between mammary-evoking mirrors (brujos dub them ‘Noh-masked nogoodniks’) and any number of somebodys (‘the poolshooters’) — over the overkilling of nothingness and nuking of sancta sanctorum to comply with the preconceived protocol. I’m oscillating between, or among. Or I’m deboning.

Hers is a hearseman of the apocalypse of the impenetrable ilk that crevasses the lake like a slo-mo hydroplane wipe-out. And it's cogently argued, not surprisingly. And, of course, you’re mottled by the cheesecloth—you know, like a scorch-mottled bamboo snake, since le labyrinthe est la partie secrète et aveugle du darkroom.

Poetry beribboned with its mooncratered thruways.