The Real, in these hands—
divided by several
floozy ideals
from that intangible
pink and cream
palace of somewhere—
always yields
(in black
and white ciphers)
the same petite quotient
and its
hideous remainder
which seems
to keep on
divising forever
and repeating
the equation, like the
purr of a mantra:
words
over
the sounds of those words
might
help you to live a less
frangible life.
Thus, I become
emperor
of leftover numbers;
here,
I have complete
and unlimited power—
to stand back
and let—the next thing
occur.
