I feel like pouring nonsense here, in this lake. As if the lake weren’t already a lake of nonsense. But to flavor it newly with nonsense I feel like a hardboiled egg, reboiling in nonsense without my shell. I am already done but getting harder. I just ate a hardboiled egg. At least that hardboiled egg is with me. I feel like bad breath, an egg of nonsense hardboiled rotting in my stomach. Its vapor is bad. Its vapor is also nonsense. This poem is nonsense.

April 1971