“It’s Time, It’s Time” retranslated
                                     and the smell of her

obese slander and propaganda.

                                                 A republic

of disappointment. We may never

escape our consumption, a tractor beam of destiny.
The optimist says he bulls-eyes womp rats

in a T-16. 
              The new year ends old and

Braque with translation software
declares: It is time for the prime minister of public announcement.

Our tree goes up

                          while the Tibetans rehearse

in exile.
                          What things did they see beyond the Empire?
There is the murmur of the trick and the smell of her.
“On the path, you can send a bill. You’re friends.”

It never occurred to him

                                     that things would end this way.
            He had bought hats

            for every occasion
save this not-quite-chaos quietly inching towards catastrophe.
Contrary to anything his renovated lungs tell him,

he feels no comfort

                                  for abandoning cigarettes. 
And the poem ends with a funk as incongruous

                        as a single wife surviving a Mongol slaughter.