My Unwell Thermonuclear Radiance

sounds like a poem by James Tate. The trees
are stunted with foreknowledge,
washed in amber laxative,
& there's always a dwarf in the corner of your eye.

Someone's borrowed my pen
& I don't know who.
I can't take my mind off it.
I can't take the window away from the room;
such elongated foreshortening! I whisper
to the last pine forest of my eyebrows.

Imitation is the sincerest form of typing
said Edison, who dreamt of starting a company
called Edison but couldn't invent the name.
Yet here he is again, with tambourine.
He's got a battery powered Paul Klee. Amazing.
And is that my pen he's using to hose down
the riotous bureacrats?
Holy coyote! It is.
Let's pray the pot is empty.