Whatever and it’s yours,

and if you want an elegy for it, then that too,

funds, salvation, mathematical software for determining your future

emotional state, aquarium space and regular space,

a variety of spaces can all be yours. For my love, for you, a tour,

a hundred guided tours through buildings long abandoned.

Works, guns, things rusting in your hands and on the floor.

Additionally, dogs: deaf danes, black pups, border

collies that come stuffed in boxes. All of actor Wil Wheaton’s

thoughts, collected. The world bursting ahead of this. And positions: on all fours,

clutching pens in fist, scrawling your name on the hardwood

that’s baked all day in sun. Sure. Connectors,

the sexiest man alive. Shimmering wifi everywhere.

Princes. Prints. And euthanasia: a hundred doors

opening in front of you until they curl up and close.

And yes. C’est oui. And wine. Manuals for response to wine

and how to respond to those who don’t respond to you

when under wine. Try Coors

instead. Some girls like ponies. Antique dress forms

and wingback chairs with your name burned into the wood

below the upholstery. Huge cats, and glass homes and stores

and office space. The density of things begins increasing

and I am stuck right here beneath the war that emanates from boors

who litter the television channels. Off and gone and elegy in less

than a second. A Kubrick theme. And feeds: jars and jars

of them in pantries everywhere. Something to eat, aquifers

returning water to the surface. Kittens. Gloss. Stars.

Runtime patterns. Songbirds’ songs. Bikinis. Steady states.

Commemorative plates.

What is also is always

and it is is it’s, and if you want an elegy for it,

we can be that also, mathematical

software for determination of

your future emotional country,

aquarium places and regular places—

all is all and all for you. For my dear

for you, a trip; you will be led on hundreds of trips

through buildings or men in the act of building.

Work, weapons, things rusting in your hands

and on the ground.  In addition, dogs: deaf Danes,

blackly pups, borders stuffed come Collies,

and that, all that a world of that

in boxes, packed, unpacked, thrown out.

All actors, after the thoughts of Wil Wheaton

Are gone, and then that is gone too, that is, gathered.

The world bursting before this, before you thought of this.

And positions: reverse those that grasp ball-point pens in fists,

and ink away. Those who paint their names on walls

throughout the city and bake away the day in sun.

Certainty. Connectors,

the sexy man living underneath you. Princes. Priceless.

Pleasures. Pressures. And aid for the dead who are just beyond us

at all times: a hundred doors that open before you,

as your phone rings ringtones and your dials all whir

and coo and close.

And yes. Oui. And wine. Answers

for questions on wine and on those

who do not answer to you. Everything swaddled

in static, in clothing, in forms and wingback chairs

that you love.

Upheavals. Gigantic cats, and homes and stores

and office rooms emptied of light and voices

and meaningless waiting.

The density of the things begins to increase

and  I am available here for you, under the war

and the news and the men who scatter TVs

into canals in a disorderly manner. 

But I am off and gone and elegy in less

than a second. Gone Kubrick. Gone subject.

Gone lining and gleaming. Containers for ashes

exist in pantries everywhere. If needed.

Gone something, to get something to eat,

and if aquifers returned shamrock shakes

to the surface, still chilly,

then we could have called this love.

The brightness of kittens. Like stars.

Hold countries firmly or they slip away.

Keep it all in your memory.

Keep it all on your memory disks.