No matter the account, the misery, the
face. Fascist, those are not always Nazis.
Forget the father, the one, the mine.
Everyday. I write a different book.
Fascist bones are not always Nazi bones.
Twisting and tied. Ragged. Dirty. Light
green-blue veins. Sometimes it’s nice
to just look. It’s a disease no one has
lived from, not yet. Or medicines.
Over-priced. The Nazis are dead.
The fascists, more than alive.
Surplus—at the ever-ready.
Who controls the accelerants of flow,
the accounts, the miseries, the rage.
The fathers, the one, the mine.
Everyday. Every one.
I write a different book.
Another one found dead. She wants
to go home, wants to go rest.
Back in their hands. Rock at their sides.
Who’s stopping him?
The first morning cloud.
Imagine. The Nazis are dead.
All of Western Literature—no, not
always much. The racists. The fascists,
more than alive. Was he reading? Was
that a man? Everyday, I try.
A different book. I write.