what does it matter, these lists of islands in doubt and ecstasy? when at work, do as the workers do; when distant from Yerba Buena, done as a cyanide lake netted with wren skeletons and slag run-off; when in Cyprus, done in by the lotus-eaters and become a tie-die target of accomodation and bald inhibition, you: don't forget the clown dilemna of drunken wizards at the alchemical chautauqua, where islands of stranded voyagers suggest a Donner pass of cannabalistic pornography, or insinuate (in pioneer garb) the insistence of knee on bottle and foot in water while we drink Tibetan stories of yak's blood and intergenerational incest - so i stay silent, or not, as static crackles and the radio fades, through islands of reception and bays of mercury, run-off from centuries of panning and passing, forgetting and not-forgetting, becalmed on Honshu roller-coasters or Haitian counter-revolutions, beguiled by Hawaiian slang and Gaza cousins, cajoled with arsenic ore and Yuba levees (built and built again, until the city becomes an island, drowned in the wealth that costs so much
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