Oh Oedipa!

(Inspired by the book: The Crying of Lot 49)

Conspire me, Tristero

Let me toot your horn

To let me know
W.A.S.T.E.
Wanting
Atrocious
Shit
To
Eat
A waste of all the pleasures combined.

Oh, Oedipa!

Oedipus is calling your name,
Dear sister.

He killed his dad
and now is in retraction.

Tristero follows me home.
It’s I.A. (innumerable atrocity) that only scores
the meaning of this book that fails to
explain anything.

Oh, Oedipa!
Your husband does not love you.
Go bathe in one of Hearst’s famous swimming pools
adorned in his castle of jewels.
(do the outside one, dear, it resembles ancient Rome).
The Tristero
stamps its way,
tattooed across
layers and layers
of clothes that smell
like plum perfume.

Oh, Oedipa!
Let bygones be bygones
and sing your sweet little song.
Forget about your paranoia
and sit and talk to me
for a while.

The big brass horn will
call your name later.
but, for now, just relax.