RUMORS OF STEVE CLAIRE'S DEATH
HAVE BEEN GREATLY EXAGGERATED

His work has been described as the concrete
swoop of an owl, nocturnal transmissions on the astral plane,
voodoo telegrams from Alisteir Crowley & Captain Kirk,
their ionized auras strewn about like tattered lace.
I've read that in Hawaii they're used by aging surfers
as instruments of self abuse.

This piece of mangled metal and machinery
is the moral equivalent of the corned beef sandwich,
over there, quivering in the buzz of neon, a poltergeist's
empty purse, perhaps a remnant of Nevelson’s hat.

These left-handed cooking utensils of Middletown Dada
chart maps behind the eyes, St. Sebastian's dream,
a contrapuntal interface with flotsam and jetsam
celebrating broken TV Barbie & Ken novenas,
dirigibles with post-modern ears, dissonant ontological mojo
that graces both floor & wall blinking at the crowd -

Where's the Brie? cries one frail thing
to a nearby biker,
the sheet metal moon just a halo
for passing geese.