Cult Figure

Seeking reward for fawning
after Thanatos,

a complement to Eros
will neither seek

something to do with
all those brains,

nor be heard, nor loved.

An opened ending of
a triangle

popping off

the answer from within
the question

is maybe another
dissolution

of newly found axioms
upholding

an emblematic disposition:

The successful speak
successfully

and excessively
of failure.

Turgid’s Folly

An enjambment of cowered embarkings,
and of razed,

spectacled isolation;

A mulish morsel; A proof
by yearning;

The flagellates in mediation—

deifying sweet
ardor, deifying

reluctant translation;
Thumb wrestling

Khronos’ mingled, exotic, eonic, fox-
gloved fingers;

Half-unburied,
half-alive;

Lowered aside
a salted, chubby,

ex-checkered twist.

The scorched
folk-temple

of the illiterate,
busted down

for a time,
later to exist.

The fear is wonderful,
it is rootless.

The heroic sweeps up,
and onto your ill-baited

shore.

“But I was a God
and you—

a fate spilling
rock!” Presti-

digitating trans-
mogrifications

that have mad-
doused me,

complete, readying
me (again)

for the wordless shift.

And It Is The Blues

It is obligation, and it is tension.
And it is the blues.

It is estranged, and it is entangling.
And it is an old family.

To have done the entrenchment as
safety…
To have done anything as a safety…

Let the hoax-swaddled preach,
and let footfalls follow

in firming belief that it is the blues,
and that is a blues, too.

Luther, Aaron, Paul, Spenser; the
nameless multitudes

of the loving dawn.

A terse summation adores her breast-
clutched scroll,

printed as hues of a rosy source.