There's a jet fighter

passing over John Bauldie's

Dylan analysis,

yeah,

streaks of afternoon

shooting

through icicles,

hanging

Stale words and soft,

stuttering through

roaring buildings

No more late

anymore;

armies

of crammed soon

Jet planes

out of the Vidsel base

in winding, roaring

sound art;

a schizophrenic homage

across the sky,

hidden by ceilings,

covered by roofs,

eyeballs tucked away;

brutal afterburners

making artful statements

on the overarch,

commemorating Harry Partch

God is making an impersonation

of the Dalai lama

in Dharamsala next full moon,

dressed in 1970's attire

Silences stand unopened

in this strict noonday noise,

wide awake

inside their ski bags,

leaning on winter porches

outside houses yawning

or else keeping up,

vainly dreaming

of speedy descents

down white slopes, open,

shivering

inside their 1930's insulation,

most of everything contraindicative