Fred & Ethel

Moves like Raskolnikov, keep covered in line,
meditating at the store, bed beyond, unable

to alter school for the field trip to please
your respect, heady corruption sleeps a

little lighter assuages the pinky ball
size horse in lower back half of your ands.

The clip at a watch shop jewelry store,
day or daylight controlled with our whim,

our whims to believing, rhyme, and courtesy;
Caustic stories—impregnated shows

a preference at center with episodes, where
Hades has a funny time.

Today at 1:36pm

It’s going to be a good Christmas,
some good to do,

paint in an early morning gold,
cursive love letters of the clouds.

I’ve drawn away from you
that that’s what I’d do:

rounded world, poem-vein.

Billy’s eyes of intellection
sway my way,

the horizon of words/
thick and thin.

It’s going to be a good Christmas:
some good to do,

paint in an early morning gold,
cursive love letters of the clouds.


The War keeps calling out from the same
dangled place: morning-afternoon-evening.

Cognitive sins? sins. Spinning, breeding
atop one another, rolled on through brittle

sheaves of the connecting North African’s
fossilized black numerals, at a soft skull’s

top, our lone minted eye, raging upon the
Colossus of Liberty Island, and her liquid,

starry shield—a book—ever begun, ever
cracked, never completed.

Nausea, bubbling up as extirpation from a
sawed off blank; a series of composite-iron,

steel, and form that applies eternal, mortal
pressure. Our drums, out loud. Our bleating

out, now—

poison-dreams, uprisen, over volume,
these gagged swallows flying down

landing by the simplest,

adjectival equation to explain how we must:
E Pluribus Unum, or

in the Allegheny original: Shema Yisroel…
Adonai Eloheinu…Adonai Echad.