In days of dark refrigeration, Sasquatch put on his thinking cap
and that decided me: no more drumhead trials before bath time.
Play instead your violet violin, sweet meteor—it's not the sea,
it's the tranquility. The coast is alive with focus groups,
each one more focused, more fecund, than the last.
Smell what I'm selling? Joyous emissions clog the annals
of common courtesy, worlds away from their former precocity.
Just below the surface, visibility is reduced to begging;
laundry gets lost in the offing. Whatever's left is all that
remains of our misspelled misanthropy. One breath is as
charmed as another, be it bated or belated; you can call me
out to catch mine as fast as my phoned-in departure allows.