Tom Brokaw is a beautiful person.
By beautiful I mean communicating disease
as in the pythgorean theorem swiped at by mud-covered tribes
The incident of my subtraction Tom thought. White
as Rauschenberg's supposed rudeness
Forget that night & your wet socks. Low-flying engines. She'll never happen again.
Did he jump, Tom, did he! And it's fall in the Southern Hemispere
Of towels, gross raging, the shits again
Febrile men -- wept, whacked out: I've got to go big distances...
Well-hung & snow-white trash.
The furniture was heavy falling also.
Is this physics or ambivalence? No matter. Tom remains
loves them amidst news
of child abuse & lake effect snow. His news, a series
of vibrations their sadness
& visions bring into relief.
Beyond toejams, landfills, caviar. The despondent correspondent
pushing all those riotous grey sheep
into a quiet form of media.