on comet

the night sky quivers
the heat waves out of eyes
blurry Pleiades and Gemini
over deer over here
the golf course opens zones
roads to homes in ones
or anothers just some
red pine and prosperous porcupine
they all get what can't be mine

on donder

undoubted in a house
cold floors own the sounds
of foots lifted and lacking felt
dinosaurs labor in the basement
blood warm water bleed to death
soak hands head and chest
momentary relief
before the window steals the rest

on vixen

the feeling is lost
on a goose at the lake
feathers contact breaks ice edges
the winter tears that freeze
and drop on the sand
wind that bites ears
and doesn't hold hands

middle america

corn cut makes for lost stalks
old thoughts become ones bought
two into sum four into done
the heaven is apple plethora
presses deliver sparks out the register
forces inclement whether the weather
all gone or here for ever
there is the time its now or never

planetary gears

the lake grows west
as the vast waste
sags east
pushed by thoughts of pikes peak
the land is tired of pleats
mountains must grow today
but around tomorrow as herodotus said
down the drain the seaway paves
boatloads of earth float away
such is such and such

first snows

the snow stops
as goose tracks
walk back to the pond
where the water is warm
the ground is swamp
and the sounds of cars
 are drowned by damp

listen to the slush
it refuses to puddle
merely an illusion of plush
more squush
less squish
under shoe
insulated spoofs
of socks sog

nonsense12

there was an owl in a hole
who amused the neighborhood vole
up there he would curse, over copious verse
and struggle to write barcarole

nonsense11

A viscious old goose from south bay
grew tired of swimming all day
so he flew to the park and pooped up the yards
and the people sayd please go away

nonsense10

there was an old man from Magog
who was indebt to the neighborhood frog
he pawned off his house and the teeth from his mouth
but died hungry and cold in frog's bog

everyday

dawn is over rated
the sun rises
just as tomatos ripen
no surprises
simple skies
black to red to blue low to high

down and back

hidden ducks I know not
hard seats squealing on breaks
golden bills turn on dives
deep cycles sub hertz climbs
knees connect thighs
wind in the willows heights
the lake green with light

11 21

black lentil
black pot
wood spoon
stir food
paprika moon
parenthetical racoon

wet leafs stack effortlessly
on  and the cold ground glows
beneath halogen lamps
spilling stinking light
onto the hungry life

x' x'' x'''

a new surface
as conducive to two circuits
a path to the ground leads
signals across
talk of the sparks
significant of where are
the moving parts

said swamp to beaver

build me a dam
build it high
but bide your time
beaver bless your hide
believe you are my child

kitchen ruminations

crumbs splotches of
dumb butter
spots scorned on cloth
ivory pipes blood
doth not clot
looks alot aloft
skys absolute and draught
drowned gasps plaster
casts lead sinks
molten barriers brain drinks
into sops sips

lakes

boats drawn up river
shallow water goes
salmon switch and float
intracibles gone out
flammable eyes soft
in death in corruptible
languid jaws catch sand
rocks instead of liquid parks
horizontal replicas jets
torpid in places previous turbid
lightness variance burdened
inside perpetual scales
side by side words to live by

up stream is down stream
             of some one

lakeside

steel pedals feel wheels
annealed vessels careen lean
into turns into hills
stop and gather
lake terminus swells

have you ever

later
in america all you
made wine water
at the kitchen sink
leutenant crayfish drinks
the drops dripped
mops wrung dry
the spigot sputters
the drain glubbers
a geisha pained fine
in a bicentenial chair
rocks and coughs lava froth
cigarettes burn spots in
ashes theirselfs
earth mercury salts solid
til rain parts
the ocean leaps to meet
what was said nought
turns into ought

uphill

in the fog
the paper owl
on branch set

a yellow leaf road
walking through the trees
every view close
to the end of the spectrum

thursday night football

cold is a thief
stealing heat and relief
from behind closed doors
spreading across the floor
pulling socks off toes
and shooting frost up nose

a cold is a beat
a crazy drummer keeps
playing a pounding head
far but near enough dead
couch sleep perforated
orange juice incorporated

silver maples

time and time again
the leafs fall at the end
yellow orange green red
the lungs of trees dead
 

october

the metal curves
arcs through stability
laden with load
unsinkable in theory

rain for three
near gunwales deep
the bailer's instincts
wake from sleep

water upon water
missed placed rocks
hide behind mist
known by ducks

 

decisions

the breeze is up
the flags are down
which way the water rolls in
determined by looking out
go onto the blood stained end
of the dock and sit
the view up the river
is a look at the future

observances

shore is rocks
green slime dried
hard brown crust
spools of eel grass thrown up
bullfrog waiting on us
to say something filled with meaning
a moment of lucid advice
a frog may use

at the wall minks
track sand into the cribs
grit to rub black grease off of hands
stop and stand with twenty pounds
hot rocks bring the sun to necks
fingers feel the center of the earth
pressure and heat waste no time
an organization of different kinds
reworked into stacks kinda tall as man

the four hundred pound terrorist

sitting on his/her bed
four hundred pounds of him/her spread
two hands of fingers to keys
between sausages and sweets to teeth
hacking the polling places of keystone states
misrepresenting intentions of americans

leaking the dirt from under the bathroom cans
the undigested wastes of the ruling classes
opened to stink, supposedly misleading the masses
two hundred pound keysters
sitting on their raymore flannigan couches
listening to the rulers follow the rules backwards

dont kid, i know you jerk

same as the fall
in the river warm
cap size is relevent
to water levels sent
up river from down here we cut scissors
into hammers and chissels
give meambition into swaths and the ddep
the fish stack and leap
gather anchor line
pitcher bilge plumb mushroom
toss the deck
frogs necks are sorry soft as heck
sit all day on the weeds
you are too much your web feet splay

solstice upon us

the water drops
the birds flock
the sun sets back from summers spot
the wind blows hot
until its not
and autumn around the corner knocks

isles_for_miles_aaa

teeth to finger
in the back of the boat slime lingers
gills bleed red on blue gunwhales
pearlwhites open up the hidden not just to fresh airs
a filter for millions of stars
river grass galore
wherever accumulations, snails tally scores
meandering turtles from wee to belabourer

isles_for_miles_s

repeaters everynight to sleep
waves rock the feet steady knees to the beat
a minute or ten digits hold each piece
of washed quartz a figment more of each
flying floating squirrels again
the mythology on a continents edge
spend several days find out weeks ahead

in south bay

weeds send life to the top
seeds wend stalks to the off
chance the breeze
brings bees

star craft

and out from the cut
throttle uppp
throw those legs over
adjust the stuff
skip off the rough
settle the rattle
aluminum across a hard moon
leopard spotted eel
tossed by an unknown wake
foam going home
iron lungs fill float above

the victory garden

but for soft hands
in the oak fronds
strong arms await dawn
sunned on

last of us

cool september breezes
smells of some season
sunshine casts longer lines
missing time i dont mind
golden black eye aster past
wake aft and softer rides faster ask
the handout duck
the swimming squirrels tails lost puff
the bass and drums circle glacier crumbs
the goose convoy and sleep in arrears
the last midges free to fly
let them in lend them friends
a hat of lunch or something untouched

LUVVADUKK (excerpt)

When Miyamoto Musashi was young, 

he used 

to range through 

the pastures with a select branch 

and cut the flowers

.  Better to practice on flowers 

before cutting necks.   

Aloo Tra Luvvadukk was the unofficial 

executioner and the official gardener 

for King Codbok in the year elevenhundred 

and practiced the reverse

.  Now, present day

, Luvvadukk chopped the joe pye weed 

as a matter of singular and abject poverty

.  But how much of our boredom is instinct 

and how much instinct is handed to us down the pathways?    

My guess is a primrose.

nuisance geese

down there is geese
paddling through problems
babbling through blank
thoughts of what not
not that there is any
it would be funny
if they where not too many

kick-off

to day september first
first september day to
ride summer out
on the handle bars
kicking star
dust at a stop
the off
season is almost on
walk anywhere
pee anytime
quite a feeling
like a mink run a mile
rocky at the start
river in a while

season pass

dinner is slight
tugs on the line
onset of night
hardly bites
hungry aright
 

cryme~

timed finger prints
identity on stolen bricks
windows smashed
guzzles burned
no stone is left
no check returned

night riders

aluminum hands
hold onto steel wheels
rolling over dark stones
glitter star grass
down hills to oak fronds
the crickets barely pause
to think over our bombs

carrion

above the forty five
shelter trees
starting willow ending
pine breeze
the vultures five
wheel free
when from no
where sees seagull
please flap 
fast or slow
another and said seagull says I
know these wings
white more variable
buzzard more airable
bruegels painted red
facets of deaths tread
on a silence of beats
one long as sleep
interspersed a single teeth
the first eases
and peels
off to port in successiveness
the next and the necks look west
east of even a seven
th feather rises
doing circles
the fleet plots charts
follows the dips
the dual rivers fists
atmosphere's hollow hand
holds above man

love and behold a Duck

this duck is a nuisance
to the surface
displacement ambient
sentience wet
fans over greater
extant perfect necks
and ankles hello yellow
paddle through water
breath or snow
under
we
go

dusk to dawn

the bang back
from g-rock
to the dock
stop the waves with
metal ifs
all you miss
is the savage winds drips

past the fifth degree
off the lee
a ghost
my toast
jelly butter tooths
flits from white to gone
farther on two points again
a crazy flap
its the fast gifts
that wandering tern
with swallow tail
drinking cps
fll f strms
hern breaks the day
two by naked waists
again whit is this place

around round

stones into hands
hands into earth
hard spots
muscles taught 
fingers crossed
joints locked
pass contact
gunpowder knocked
hundred year granite clocks
tick tock rock by rock

my bank is in the sun
drinking riverside melatonic
lots of time to pry bar round
 apart between docks
pick and shovel dirt filled socks
arms brown
rebalance to the ghost bum
on the roll home the hull
hums and pitches foam

sandstone grains
granite tombs
mortar trace
lbs onz
heavy seven
hours throwing stuff of heavens
early gates
what makes
minks I relate to
homes for spiders eight
legs holding up noon heat

squall line

drops scatter the river 

diffident bits spit
sparkle and resist
surface tension amiss

flotsam visits

floats in winds seats

me seagul indifferent too
a confusion or sanity with feathers

osprey tern on wing
king fisher a juniper

aaabending wings up
the wind feels pins
           zillions
magnifying glasses
on my sunned limbs

again and a gin and tonic
what would i give

los

the squall line rips down
the river losing islands

one by one

calumet
chapman shoal pine
north colburn little round round
woronoco basswood tidd
twin
castle francis
suddenly goose is  it

denizens a

walking through the house
you may contract
a spider
to ride along
or a net
to tag along
or a rider
to side along
you may expect
walking through the house

how the zebra got his stripes

they say that cuts left open under
to let in the sun
yield permanent scars
then my arms
should be always crossed
ever present reminders of blood lost

cherries and ice cream and toast

in pittsburgh
when i lived
in pittsburgh
i lived off
cherries
the sour red sat right
with vanilla breyers ice cream
always i wished was mercers
in pittsburgh
i lived off
toast
the slices fat to hold
ice cream and cherries
eloquently pulled from the yard
in pittsburgh
the mafia gave me a tree
the tree gave us cherries
and the giant eagle
had ice cream on special
for two weeks
last month
i lived on this
when i lived
in pittsburgh

no one believes me
but its true and nothing but

cherries and ice cream and toast

night garden

though dumb
crickets strum
wings of some
speak for one

viva la

above by viva
wandering the yard with camera
smeared pointillist sky done up
 paint same as the midnight cowboy gown

glasses woven into hair
her face inclined
with the cloud depth
eyes one two superstars

off of oft

extensions of man
buffet of fly
well of salt
alight of feet
wake of sleep
anger of my
place of time
dock of iron
girders of mass
prayers of last
summer of hot
wind of clouds
absent of rain
thirst of death
queen of lace
bees of buzz
honey of those
but of butter
I of course
know of that

tomato season

august reasons
lines from sun
participle tongues
supporting laudanum 
tomato two to one

aphorisms

sitting black duck
skipping rock
or solid trunk
bobbing for waters touch
golden must be expensive rust
heavens pace is the peace weeds
having places they space stations
growing all the wings into one
pleases fasten onto the lines
spread on a message of this
keep on rolling on

dig and drink

my dreams have a chance
of showers
sprinkles of flower petals
orange buckets filled nettles
swallow the earth
let the dirt sift
through liminal twists
gut instinct never amiss

oft powers
hidden under circumstance well
to the surface lift taciturn minerals
free of the rubble

Lord Luvvadukk (Part 3)

Luvvadukk stopped in the middle of the work room and looked right and looked left and looked right at the cut glass ashtray that sat on the windowsill with three half cigars.  He picked one up and put it in the breast pocket of his yellow denim shirt that was unbuttoned up and loose at the wrists and opened the window to shoo the fly out.  The fly dodged this assault and being a feeble minded fly refused to fly out the open and bounced around up at the top.  Luvvadukk sparred with the fly for nearly ten minutes and began to think that this might never end, that his niece might come next week and find him still fighting to get the fly outside or he may even die before this happened.  Sometimes a fly is so bent, its best to let them do the wrong thing and beat their wings against the glass until they drop dead on the windowsill for the wisp of a corner spider to prize.  Lord Luvvadukk stopped fighting with the obdurate and padded silently back to the door, where he turned and took a one minute look at the fly who was now stalling the inevitable and resting on the window lock.  For this entire minute neither of the two characters moved.  To the fly, it seemed as if time was flying by and for the man it seemed as if time did not exist and the fly was so big and so bright, flicking on the white window sill, that it was the contradiction of life, the unenviable state of knowing enough to know you are trapped alive but not knowing enough to save yourself from your own inspired death.  Luvvadukk knew about as much as the fly did in this regards. 

Lord Luvvadukk (Part 2)

Turning away from the edge of the sun splintered porch, Luvvadukk took the four steps slowly to screen door and paused to hear the red tail hawk break the silence of thousands of crickets and grasshoppers playing their wings in the grass gone to seed.  The barn swallows shooting in and out of the open hayloft did not pause in their loops and the crickets did not cease.  In fact, the crickets and grasshoppers only seemed to grow louder in response to this encroach on their own wild chirping. The screen door slammed and settled on crazy hinges back to a perpetual ten centimeters ajar.  On loafers Luvvadukk was a silent man.  Not that there was a soul there to not hear him pad over the kitchen floor and into the work room.  Despite the silent tread, in the work room, some glass jars holding unassorted nails and screws bounced together and a fly took off and buzzed feebly against the sagging glass window panes.  The floor joists in the work room had had a spring ever since the house was built by Old Man Otto Luvvadukk circa 130 years ago.  Back in that time, as it is still, lumber was scarce, used sparingly, and the long boards for the floor joists had been given more than the customary spacing and the pillars in the center of the plan had been completely neglected or poorly secured to the timber and knocked over long ago by truant skunks and other wandering animals.  The deflection was only mildly alarming and Luvvadukk had no plans to crawl under the house to inspect the situation and definitely no desire to tear up the floor and make adjustments.  The floor decking was also original, faux tongue and groove cedar planking, scarred up badly from a century of hard boots and hard drinking and hard iron tools.  Nearly everyone in this county was a hard drinker and had hard boots and nearly everyone in this county had spent an evening in the Luvvadukk work room.  In his early years, before the town ran out of water, Luvvadukk was a jack of all trades, though strictly a hobbyist.  Folks with intractable problems came to him for quick and cheap fixes.  Lately though, Luvvadukk was turning away the few projects and problems that still came through the big red gates of the Luvvadukk estate, had trouble concentrating and was thinking less applied, more theoretical.  Sometimes he would find himself with a piece of wood in his hands, a door knob, or a trowel, or a box of salt, or a broken balloon and not know what to do with it or why he should do what was to be done in the first place, if that at all. This state of mind was puzzling and it was a puzzlement why this state was more frequently enveloping him as if it was a fog and he a golf course.  Luvvadukk thought that the fog was perhaps a consequence of his being there, but it was situational, it was a fog he walked into.  Outside the work room the air was clear, the sun was bright, and the atmosphere was not viscous, and Luvvadukk was always purposeful.

states

I love when you rip
I love when you steady
I love when you sweet
I love when you smelly
I love when you flow
I love when you eddy
I love when you flat
I love when you rily
I love when you warm
I love when you chilly
I love when you hard
I love when you deadly
I love when you full
I love when you empty

Summer's Dishes

line green stars steam
fire east swath west
down abrupt pyrolite
hemisphere gadgets turnt key
burdens peace 5am screen
lunch beams open please

muskie blues

oh god, we got those muskie blues

I'm a muskie fishing man from a muskellunge land
born with a fishingpole in my hand
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

I'm a muskie fishing man from a muskie fishing town
Fishing for that muskie til the sun goes down
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

trawl all day til the evening come
trawl all night til the gas is done
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

out here fishing in the snow and the rain
dont catch none but I try anyway
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

never catched a muskie and might never will
but if I do, we'll eat muskie gills
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

Get in the boat with the tackle and the net
like a muskie fish, fishing soaking wet
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

Be fishing for the fish till I catch one
from eagle wing down to 201
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

trawling for the fish and jig some too
a muskie on the line will always come loose
oh god, got those muskie fishing blues

curiously mud

more patient than the bowfin
must be great
or millions of years wait
is not too long to be late

satiate in the midst of solution
a quorum of liquid stasis
remedial eyes spot fins as the basis
to instants in absentia perfection

south bay is a place to say
its two ok
fine enough that ages
a patina of algaes
that cheshire grin
who might turn in or out
to be a fish disguised as a lawyer
or a dismal pike a shoe

fax

inconstant is hopes goes
awaits triads flows
so the gardener grows
tomatos and beans in rows
the sky dumps sun on those
but rain is what throws
life into listing boughs

all green

roots and shoots
food for common clods
blocks of thoughts
building strong
hands and whats
lists of props
twice cyclops

_

doctor doctor
give me a shot
snot in your nose
and slugs in your ouch
heals the toes
breaths the most
deer brains shinola mouth
little birds crap alot
sons they sell
cost a fetch
work them death
eat the rest
tired and smoke
lies a joke
in the grave
muskie got yo dick

kins

one forty clicks
up around back
to hear fire hot tears
drop into sand
castles made of home
burnt two bays aways

Nocturne, E Op 8, No 2

through fields stirring
with the unsleepers
a ride on radiances
the goblet pours silver
brilliant and blinding
through the black woods
turning all down here
into all down there

a portion of the spectrum
chances are selective
in choice photons
conducting a cricket section
soft steps blur wet

adjust what
never set
in bones
blood tides
a round midnight
hides shadows
behind lifes
cut teeth
bite

datum

I

peace does not follow
a straight path
it squanders in ditches and streams that dont last
time is a factor but the more it is past
the less calm is caught with every cast

II
clouds burgeon and balloon
horizons skew from soon
burnt wind whips the spray
forty yards drops away
dusty hot skin peppered
spots scattering granite make a leapord

II.22
arms walk recreations etudes brillantes at seven herz
the resonance of spinal courts
a hardrock marimba chatters
lines melodious by crashing water
periodic white noise backdrop for reverence and rattle
snakes scatter and dive for appellations

III
a following sea
the pith of the tiller
burned into knuckles
eyes on the crests and jumps
weight and balance
alone never enough

General Malaise

reserved optimizing
approximate lines
crystal clear intersects
interstices to radials on polar spines
strains of brilliant tin
germane luster symphonies
nine times out of then
a resurrection of hesitant melancholy
a peasant conducts properly electric
the property ohmic and gaudy
silk tied end to end to profusely
a painter akwardly and mal error
ropes apprehend a generation descended
foils for foibles done centuries

noon

sitting in the yard
talking books to leafs and fleurs
salts of the earth well to the surface
freeing the flys up into humid skys
spiders and their ilk
web the sun to dark skin
stretched semipermeable thin
across the back of perpetual motioning
blood thick and mosquito itch
velvet antlers an elk
wandering down to the old watering hole
(or as groucho says what
is actually looking for
is an elkahole)
So what  to do besides
a launch off the dock
a cloud in pajamas
sailing out to add a splash of red
aberration on the silverblue ceiling above
below the silence
preaching volumes on eel grass ravines
the mud of the months
collections of colleagues lost
lists of fauna and granite dust
the past is present in the millers and midges
from swim under to flutter over
overtures to metamorphosis'
brought to you by igneous thoughts
glaciers long ago calved carved all
thats abouts
indivisible with the currents trees
ancestor moss and lichen
slowly turning stone into vitamin

swum

surfeit black surface splatter
splotch moon in spots scatter
dips in thoughts which matter
hats wet as fish skin plaster
sip the windiest water

isles_for_miles_L

a bounding rock plain
where lizards supposedly play
really, though, just hidden beer and bees
a habit that first search
when we where only ten
              still

archival winds

oh you stupid distracting clouds
these clouds have not looked this good
this spectacular since last time
(assuming they are the same clouds:
which leafs an aperture to wonder
how long it takes for this hair
to make it all the way round)

lightning strikes

this day a stretch
awake to keep sleep again
hot in bed 9 am
rigged up ill fitting spars
raising sails without a clew
wrong back to square one

constitutional

what is needed is a porcupine outlook.  
but not the porcupine pooping up the den,
but instead that porcupine up in the tree
sleeping balanced on pine boughs bouncing in the breeze.
whats up there to see if its not below our feet?

brilliant corners

divvy and take stock
spoons and forks and cups
metric and english
rogues and lost shingles
horse feathers more sweaters
worst weather is whenever

first stories

the bugs inhabit the hands
of plants eating the land
sending up juices
and solutions
to soak up the suns contributions

second stories

the porch has sights
mud daubers black bright
greater this a birds rights
above the tops of earths bites
a glimmer from on greater heights
arrowed there mere erudite

perpendicular to here

the north wind
damns the fisher
to hunger
the curse is on
the fish go home
the jig is up
down we go

frog frog frog

frog was sitting mid street
taking in the midnight heat
says I frog
this is a bad place to be
the traffic is squashy your squat and hard to see
I leant to scoop said frog
said frog I will pee
in your hand dont touch me
I learned thats truth
as I held frog in hands shaped a cup
Said frog squirmed
and sat in pee
embarrassed into quiet
frog I tossed in the cool grass
picture my hands though still wet with piss

gold at forty deep

I want your blood on my hands
I want your head at my feet
I want your guts in my hair
I want your skin on my teeth

a feather lost

a feather tossed
turned white to off
from a wing
on the wind
to lost thoughts
rising waves and troughs

at arms length

the lily stalks
big orange talk
above the bounding mane
a roil tensing and bouncing
net gigapascals in the bush
silver to the touch
and death to the moth

the shoal out front

THE SHOAL OUT FRONT*

the problem of
swimming out to the rock
disrupting a seagull
and standing up
is it is
so good
to dry out this blood
swimming in the sun
with granite dark wet feet
river kisses
two soles
and flows
quartz veins
saturated
this day intermittent
rainshine
whats this rock if it isn't mine

__ to wind the heart with langmuir lines



*the shoal has been out front since before i or you was
yet as it was
always holding off the river
at certain times of year
above or below

a relief for those to perch
who live aways away

summer winds

when the bugs
fly in my eye
they die
better they be lashed
than smashed
and sealed under lid

Lord Luvvadukk (Part 1)

Lord Luvvadukk stepped out into the stunning sunshine 

that is only stunning and hot and humid and cloudy 

like this in west Kansas, also known as Colby County, 

also known as the birthplace of various famous figures and native dignitaries.   

By the incidence angle, 

Lord Luvvadukk knew that it was around mid afternoon, 

after lunch enough to take an afternoon break 

to walk the perimeter 

and break in a new pair of boots 

and smoke the bad cigar 

been working on since the middle of last week.  

 Lord Luvvadukk was wearing loafers at the moment, 

having been sitting in the twilight of the living room 

reading expired New Yorkers 

that Aunt Luvvaduvv brought ten years ago 

on her way through from New York to San Francisco, 

as it is so common of New Yorkers to do, 

to pause long enough on route 

from New York to San Francisco 

to leave something behind.   

The New Yorker thinks about that, 

but cannot turn back, 

the mentality of every block a battle, 

every subway a potential terrorist target, 

every wasted step a wasted step.  But 

Lord Luvvadukk, 

as a simple prairie man, 

could not toss the magazines in the burn pile, 

could not imagine that Aunt Luvvaduvv would not return for them.  

 It took 9 years, 

or about one year ago, 

today, 

before Luvvadukk opened the pages and started reading.   

The talk of the town was the mismanagement of some nuclear reactor 

someplace or another 

and the consequence of fiscal meltdown 

or somesuch disaster.  

 Frankly, Lord Luvvadukk could not really care.   

The significance of it all was all so far removed 

from Kansas and the perimeter of the Luvvadukk estate.