I
And so, Jack, off you go.
At long last spent. . .
And so, Jack, off you go.
At long last spent. . .
On J.K.’s Big Sur
II
“Miracles occur,” said Plath.
Or, in more contemporary vernacular,
“Shit happens. . .”
Then you kill yourself
And the black rook fucks your queen
And mates your king.
So the twig hangs stiffless.
III
Said Salinger,
“Happiness is a solid and joy a liquid.”
And – or but – what the gas?
IV
Descartes posits the I.
But Beckett ain’t so sure.
And so the enigma remains.
The question begged
in all the self-referential refrains.
“On my back in the dark.”
Still in the dark.
On Beckett’s Company
poetastrophy 