—a transcontemporation of Vallejo

       I escape from a porto-pottie, by the skin of my teeth.
A bomb is dropping, I can't tell where it will fall.
Plumb wrong. Tarnation. Hip-replacement surgery.

       Zap of a shitfly (soulfly) that dies
between the screen of a bug-zapper, rises slightly.
How ’bout dem apples Sir Newton?
Naturally, each husk is your son.

       Leviathan. The book of bathrooms.
The same page, crumbling, a weight,
words, a ham sandwich, something shrouded
in TV-light, hit mute: shhh, here it comes.