Pull up that willow chair until the legs
squeak across the existential porch.
Bombs splinter in crop circles of mayhem
in blind homage to dream-time caliphate.
Tunnels under the sand.
The most learned froth to
bring the mother down.
Empire must be contained.
Kos and his dictats:
scratch them with another viewpoint
and watch autocrats born.
Who remembers Khmer Rouge
when commodities brokers with
receding hairlines, soul patches
and Birkenstocks hail their blue
sun moments while framing
Jefferson Airplane tickets
in acid-free matt.
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