Tubas of glass make a joke;
toe-tapping theories make me
dance like tormented Nietzsche;
but then I laugh—your tradition
is all kinds of horns,
and a trombone cutting up kicks my brain-ass.

I jump into the leaves,
then my foot pops out.
First I saw the zebra, then his cock
hardened; it expanded my consciousness.
I combed the index to Breton's manifestoes
but proved to be on my own.
In zoo's early autumn, I had to wing it.

Now in a rocking chair, I wonder
what it was like—that zebra cock telescoping
and that glass tuba, or was it a grass banjo
played for an elephant squatting?

(Written 5 September 1992, revised 2 October 1992)

©1992, 2004 Ralph Dumain. All rights reserved.

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