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