Lip Service

Khikkiana, my manuscript is listed as "in stock" and "used".
We stood in the same room, once, but Yeats knew me not.
On this National Poetry Day, when performance is confused
With the literary form, and a black dot
On the palm is missed, Palmyra, like the women's literary
Salons, destroyed, I see a man on the path to Lee Wood:
Grimy swab for a clarinet,
The Chomsky and Foucault debate,
The making of ormus (wet),
To fork, to flocculate.
Khikkiana, the sun is flickering
As geese fly overhead, squeaking
Like a train carriage swaying, soundflowers swaying,
Swaying, and I walk self-exclusive, detached from circumstances,
Through the Cemetery of Desolation.