make us all homosexuals o muse, o privy muse by Julian T. Brolaski

the treated instrument, bigod, only
reminiscent of its ownself, by no means
treats of figures.  the port & its authority—

yew are a forestt in a tree, unpro
saical and crass-in-philosophie. 
moreover there is—
that those trees are tending to—
I would be unprosaic too, if it werent for all
those creatures struggling in a heap of trash—!

lest you flirt and forget to do the work
of a would-be polymath.  a sensitive
inattendant to the newly dead
what want rescue.
whos lies are a force against my fine
effacement
in an aqueerium of angry fish.  one is
a movement that has lost its relevance
by force, by collumnar force. 
I come to this city & I swear,

I swear I am not like dorothy, I already
knew the seat of my desire.  I hoarded
planetary secrets like a spy: one privy
room has another scented soap than
another.  it smells like pine, winter and flannel. that
one person is from a certain planet, and another
is from another, I will grant no further.
why shd some not smell of pine and birch?
why sum not dayes-eyes?

make us all homosexuals,
o tridented muse, o privy muse.