Ode
to Kurt Vonnegut
Empire
plays a piano in the dust of an official room—
The maudlin violin, cigarette ash, ancient tomb,
Cheap napkins, plastic flowers, that sort of décor.
Unknown, anonymous, time’s prisoner.
Insane,
inane, someone to blame—just talk.
And greedy genius wants to fuck her again,
Not unlike the incarcerated Alton Darwin
In Hocus Pocus, Hocus Pocus, Rod McKuen?
The
official list, Mother Night, a knock—
Don’t answer, the cynic, knock, knock;
You came to the University to study Kant,
But Cat’s Cradle made you knot.
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