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.
Ambling, up-to-fifteen where
to find Michael—
“Your repast awaits your mouths”.
Bright position; a pink,
of pleasuring anesthetic.
Fly-toting; Greased up to a sheen,
a mane this dispirited moment.
The eschatological will always
suggest it is: to return to what’s known,
a timid love and topaz cold.
Did the sensitive-to-a-time,
stranger pedestrians, without
effort, have a register to do-that-in?
The open-air-hello (Allen, off of
De Quincey) out-of-a sign
we awake to: exiting the head.
A secret spun, the constriction
drained. A simplex of systems,
leaves, trunks, toots ambiguous.
Measuring beyond diminished;
How did I begin to spray,
apprised of accretion,
only smarting after spring?
The secure for a lifetime’s
work, weekends of luck,
begetting the drowned—
seeding and hibernation.
The attorneys general, the lawyers
private, the aides-de-camp
of Jefferson, West/more-land:
groves, avenues, beachside courting.
Eaves dropping to a flatter: a crack
in the thread—was it worth it
and what it was. Worth, Bond, Wall,
pellucid fictions reentered by
the grace of dreams.
Covering Dixie in Tagalog for tribute,
a draft horse felled—a riotous heat.
Fracturing, whistling identities,
a whistling shot inside
a tired foot: the chosen
fatigue’s color, July day.
First, evil whispers from me, from
me and my blow-
holed, island fife.