We're Travelling Down A Carnival Road, Are Met At Intersections By Varying Faces: Poets As Eyes In Collapsed Black Holes, Even The Universe As Extension Of The Stellar Poet. Then, They Are Transformed, Become Worm-Pickers, Masons, Longshoremen Who Subsidize Their Poetry With The Real Task At Hand: Making Waste, Laying Trestles Instead Of Women To Prove A Point. This Is Necessary. I'm Defending It, Find It Both Believable And Interesting. Meanwhile, Troubadours And Wandering Minstrels Eke Out A Living On Storybook Memories, Join Marco Polo If He Ever Lived. Seek Out The Great Khan In A Box Of Cookies Or Within A Magnum Of Champagne Depending On Circumstances. The Grand Lunar Is Watching. Her Pallor Commands True Poets To Roll Over, Gaze At Silver Buttocks Make A Commitment To The Art Beyond Spray Painting, Ghost Watching, Navel Gazing. The Sky Is The Final Home Of The Soul, The Sage Himself A Wanderer Announced. It Was A Warm Spring Evening. Lilac Bounded From Antler Brown Twigs Only Recently Inert. Everything Dissolved At Once Into Crying. The World Itself Became A Tear.