By Raymond Farr
Hans Arp dresses himself
In seal skin 30
& breathes deep
A measure of
6 Avenues pinging
With loss
Seems a delightful missing boy & dog
To muse upon
A strobe light
His stilts still walk
Engaged in malapropism
After malapropism
Staged at 30 degrees
Of negative affect
Someone meanders into meatloaf city
In & out of him
A savage box
Penultimate with caged affect
Appears horizontal to
Spilling words
Over his roof tops
His Irish ballad a gift of the dumb Irish gravy
His blarney
(misst places him)—
The Penultimate
Gourde (his head on straight)
Wires the complex
Flexing its muscles
He panicks in altered
Spaces (up tight)
At certain intervals
A corner chair
Or choir
He is singing commercially accidentally
Hit after hit
As someone shifts
The essence down town
Believing tv
Our water scrambles up
The Outlaws’
Inner tubes
As someone’s original dilations
Pour whisky flotilla
A mr head
Whose tenses shift
The is to was
The bend in the road was supple writing
We worship it as men
To one who was lost—
Either Hans Arp
In the form of
Phylogenic transparencies
Or Karl meat
(Po as a po boy)
As mental as
A plaid veneer
Clutching at Straws 
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