I Can'T Answer That

It isn’t the incandescence that bothers me It’s that anyway you spin the arrow, Whatever goal or mission or path you undertake, They’re all correct. The full force of your efforts is all that matters. A congress of pelicans came to dinner last night While I swung scallops at the High Mistress. The miasma! My asthma! You’ve driven me right down Knucklehead Lane now. My knee hurts. I should’ve taken Hertz and Let the engine roar up into a God-awful thunder. Jumping in and out of mosques. Carrying news I can't interpret. Practicing silliness under the cupboard, Beside the space that has no name. I am that space with a wicked haughtiness. I am also however lofty I dare my balloon to rise, Navigating my own slim spool. Dr. Thumbopolis is ready for me now. Time to stop writing. Don’t dare bring this back to “incandescence.” (You horrible hack.) What bothers you if not the flooding light Busting through baseboards, then? Go on. Answer.