i am grateful you
didn't know the fissures
that seized our ancient kingdom

our two atop the marriage mount.

there were many reasons
for the fault, of course, many players
whispering at court, chipping the stone, but i have  

an imperceptible bias for these things

and flatteries of lesser pawns
that played on vanity and power and prowess—
the virulence kings—were nails and nail and nails

that cracked the stone on which we sat.

who knows what fossils can be made of shards of us?

i'd say the #2 has etched its genius
on the pale, ruled stock for the last time—

(imagine when Paul said that, scribbling his
preach and practice between the lines at the foot of a fiery cross)

but the truth is, my work is ephemera;
the etch of a keyboard stroke imprints only

as long as the flaming feet of a
hurried conflagration.

...And kirchéglise(Notre) dame
   o u r l a d y m y l a d y
encyl-able, Pope or Pope or popedeux
and vindicate the waysteland
   My caska is openclosed!
(pews is pause is putride and prodigious)
Et tout-en commun?Gizerly pharaoh HA
lf gone.
Source-error of Oz
Ymandias
and dust, and dustinction

   god pull downwhich?

or fleurs-de-litigation.
Vini, vu/gesehen, conquered/konkeri?
And tot
And mort
and trunks gefallen.
Fantast-asy—I flail.
pause

S e m p i ternam.

an arid earth can suffer to gag
through the suffocation of its tenants,
flailing with torrential—cataclysmic—seismic
limbs at the cold-hand smothering by
a race in apathy.

though, let's not just yet, not yet
pull the bullets from our guns.

now let's convene a table
about the best mamma-mug and idle
steak knives from a wedding never better severed
in m'acrimonious divorce. let's

chit-chat about the diaper pail of
politics and the **** that children under 2 have a
disgusting habit of bringing
to the fetid stir
of middle-somethings—

let's this and that, and on, and oh! you first!
and I can't agree more! and should we
have another pour?—yes, yes, yes, let's
do!—and hey, I have something
prescient to say...

—but why start now?
another pour, another kid, another pail,
another fetid downpour of adulting—
to hell with revelations on the lam.

I've often soured at the strangest season
in a yellow June;
for heir-apparent Fall's sublimest features
flower when the sun of Summer shades—

I, too, come alive in staves of October
whispers—then, with whiskey cupped—am peaked amid
the Autumn's auburn-stringèd
boughs.

webs
are hinged, locked, and strung—
with the world twitterpated rapt.
while i, you witness, cannot snag a verb—

and the prey, with her tease in akimbo
fluttering flirt, flies—
winked, and sought, but e'er—
uncaught.