The English bowler hat was worn by Charlie Chaplin. He used it as a prop in his slapstick comedy routines. In so doing, he abused a most genteel hat.

Cockney tears, red, white
and blue tears, touching-
only-to-his-mother-tears.

I enter a room where a fan seems to be chanting
“Air! Air! Air!” as it whirrs. I see it’s not
the fan, after all, but a child facing the wall

Arriving there just after dark 1 see that the draw-bridge has been raised. I compare my situation to that of a piece of luncheon meat destined for a sandwich, only to find that the bread it was supposed to occupy is already accounted for.

I have implied
a garden. It is wish-
fulfillment.

I never had a toothache, but the desire to have one crossed my mind constantly. 

After the rape & the bloodbath, the savage king
& his men retired to a long shed built in an open
field by a thin river fashioned for this lull in the pillaging
so the horses could rest.

All summer the half voice lurked behind me

& I played deaf for days for to live

To not write about it to use my body

Those mornings in the last days of December,
as the smog deepened over the mausoleum
& the ghost of the emperor’s first wife
lingered about the four gardens, weeping
over her dead child

The cocklebur and ergot, horse chestnut, fescue taste not,
neither taste the green false hellebore nor jimsonweed