Tekster: Thought Industry. Jane Whitfield Is Dead.

[I) July 10th, 1993]

Jane's clenched legs writhe. Soot dress dance flannel
sheets. Inane lush that can't decide, but I'm snared
here. I wake flustered in her bedroom that I can't
escape. I weep here's something that can never change.

This marriage is make believe. Cook slop meal; and
sew t-shirt; and wash my plate; and make bunk bed. I
never asked these things, because Jane's now dead.
Jane's found dead, long dead. Left me to this lonely bed.
Hoard of locust mad.

[II) September 17th, 1995]

Jane floats down the aisle. Voluptuous cream
wedding dress. Family and friends tight smiles. Razor
near. "I do," and I promise on the bottle lover's grave.
She sighs, "our timeless loyalty is branded change."

This marriage is make believe. Mow front lawn; and
wash sports car; and cut slab wood; and pain garage;
but we're not a sexist pair. Because Jane's now dead.
Because Jane's been dead. Because Jane's found dead,
long dead. Stranded to this frigid bed. Pacific bottom
sad.

I'll mourn her softly

[III) May 3rd, 2043]

A-frame by Winchester stream. Trimmed hedge
with daisies. Fields. Stained plank ceder fence. My
gramps' ponies. She'll shit a brick. I bet. Our house to
raise a family. She'll shit. I bet. We'll grow old
together. Snail slow and ancient gray. Racquetball on
tuesday morning. Playing eucker. Sipping tea; and
watch the sun die from our rocking chairs. We'll gum
sweet oatmeal holding dishpan hands. She'll shit a
brick. I bet. To watch our children married. She'll shit.
I bet. To see us when we're ninety, sleeping in on church
sunday. Playing our dated CD's that we bought in my
twenties.

[IV) January 25th, 2051]

This marriage is make believe. Now I'm crying on
her body as she passed away without me, and left me this
bitter old man; because Jane's now dead, because Jane's
been dead. Because Jane's found dead. My wife's now
dead. My wife's found dead. Jane's left dead.