Under Volcano

It was of interest when what’s his face, Ernest Hemingway, fading away, sat in an Italian hospital, bliss to be alive, crinkling.

In Italy was Mt. Vesu ripping up a grungy plaint of good loving

As a wound, festooned,

With shrapnel unreviving.

Spaghetti was a western, with whatever topping goes aloft,

Printemp a lo

And Macaroni, on a collar, or a chest pumped and blowed out,

We can’t do better. We love blood– and guts. We love sacrifice, splinter, and real nothingness, as if an ant, or a colony of social instincts or blind reminders, heedless, or an exoskeleton which blinds with lust,

Sees a nurse, nearly a nun, or a virgin, or a Mona Lisa, stolen from the Oevre,

Mt. Kilomanjaro,

Escapade.