Green Machine

To dream it all up—Mayored,

the short-wave radio-sound unknown.
Inside ennui’s ether with lupine
laudanum, poppycock, a frequent to
emissions; Passion plays as morality

trails. Our orificial origins.
A moment. A word. A pregnancy,
if pause. Idling in cognition. Idling and
veneration. The stray deity’s clomp.

Subtle, surrender, stomp.

A quarter-glass resolved by revolution.
Inhale of refracting, indecisive flight.
To dream it all up—layered;

In an altared tone.

Lyin’ In Iron

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.

It’s Getting There

I don’t often
talk about it.

The Depression of my days.

Nights are something
else. Bombs

and noise, speech

and sound. Nights
are something else.

Laden, leadened.
A body. The work


I don’t often talk.

We could be anywhere,
by now. I’m here—

working in a way,
no one can say.

I don’t often hear.
The Depression of my days.

Nights are something.
Music, silence

and song. Entirely
like the days.

Afternoon darkening;

to a working,