The grotesqueries abound in Dolores
as the sweetfuck drunk in white sandals
speaks softly to himself, and louder
as people pass and no one hears or
if they hear they hear
an animal lowing

A stub-nosed mutt is dressed
In fineries licking around
The patent leather sinking mud
In placcid weather flaccid
mares grasping for their place in                        
an anchorless world

And who is the walrus now?
If perhaps we all deigned to
bury our faces in small bits
of nonsense now and then
What soft and lonesome artifacts
could we we unearth between our teeth

like dogs with so many bones
lizard brains pockmarked with listicles
an apocalypse of many gods
on with many islands
whose harbors all exact
a pound of heartflesh
for the siren's song of Answers