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.

Sabbatai Zvi III

O those minions—rains black,
O cherished base on a bedeviled

steeple-chase,
his minions—

assembly of shredded, rubber
pinions. Harness-back-open-fire

in imbalanced anger, soaked
by Zeyde’s unfettered white spit.

I hear the charismatic,

old man’s wives were all shiksa;
His tahtee, just another

gunif–nit. My eemah: the vain-
glorious quiffe, found Abah

stoked on with that whiff; Believers?

Goyishe trash and yiddishe rash;
Statists; Ethno’s; Machers

and Chazerai.

Their ear stoned deaf to a grandson’s
cry. To leave Egypt and wind-up

as wanderers with this guy?

Yes, I’ll greet you when; Yes,
an apostasy foments in the stems.