Tom Brokaw Tom Brokaw is a beautiful person.
		By beautiful I mean communicating disease
	as in the pythagorean theorom swiped at by mud-covered tribes The incident of my subtraction Tom thought. White as Rauschenberg’s supposed rudeness Forget that night & your wet socks. Low-flying engines. She’ll never happen again.
			Did he jump, Tom, did he! And it’s fall in the Southern
	hemisphere
			Of towels, gross raging, the shits again
				Febrile men - wept, whacked out: I’ve got to go big
	distances...
		Well-hung & snow-white trash. The furniture was heavy failing also.
		Is this physics or ambivalence?					No matter.	Tom remains
	sequestered,
							loves them amidst news
					of child abuse & lake effect snow. His news, a
	series of vibrations their sadness
		& visions bring into relief.
	Beyond toejams, landfills, caviar.						The despondent correspondent
		pushing all those riotous grey sheep
			into a quiet form of media.