I Don’t Call It Anything

Beyond this melting
point an allusive

pall of evasive
concatenations,

the propelling
tyrannical rhythms

betwixt foreboding
and botanical schisms,

accumulating to what?

An era-inspecific
terminus engorged

on those enfeebled;

A hummed about
science or license

for this

used demotic opacity’s
standard predation?

Volume (Familiar)

Messages from gen-
ocide fastened hands

a time turning a way
no, never to forgive

plan, plan to say
in·com·men·su·rate

nights, nights over
remains;

stolen, no located.

Fidel Castro and His Beard

The incessant demand
of perfection returned
unrested and loosed
moving to one idea
of sentient sects
inane such workings
of benevolent bent-spine
books devoured also
as into ubiquitous
penetrating evil looks
so scoured it stood
creation alone the provisioner
of steady or some lasting
reproofs and untimely reprieve
a description put forth
maybe placed forth
as discrete as function
of no singular hope the
generation for a universally
dignified-particular-humane-laughter