Toy poems with metre measured in secret
mathic rhythms to mask the chthonic excuses

hidden in couplets and twice twisted sevens
jots and tittles known only in song

Cantor sing of alleluia, jah jah siss boom bah
Yah, who lifted us from slavery and brought us back

on track to be conjoined in
twin snaking tales of things that work, well

function for the good
in the principle
idea of be, aimed at
am-ing, ping, ding, ****

the witch is dead,
which old witch?
the wicked witch, ding **** the wicked witch is dead.
And that past as a flash- back to the future,
home again, home again,
higgs-idy lickity split,

you remember. We are old… working out

Silver sneakers, so Hermes-ish, I wish
to find that character playing the guesser guessing
something like the common sense
some folks scorn for simple use,
in times of electricity, whispering revealing the insanity,
in order
to lieve be the madmen, wombed and un, effected
by the tribal lie, used to shape a nation
from a ritual story retold to fit the pleasure of the tyrant
of the time,
time sold for membership in the mess,
a seat at the table….

imagine the aftermath of hate, juxt
now,
oppose the forethought,
say no,
the worst is not to come,
not from my agreeing with those fools
who
accuse me of lying in wait to take your soul,
and keep it safe,

wished you knew the secret of secrets, did you?
what do you know?
Death can be imagined more often than possible,
truly, once is enough,
truly, fleshed out with characteristics common-
found as basic features in life's
entertaining devices used to hold the oxen in line,
daily grind, grease the squeeks, see the wish
wish wish

all the stories speak of ever after this,
then that we know

yes,
know,
some sudden how, now
we know…

nothing.
F'sure, like I said. God, make me like Socrates,
and Jesus, suddenly
I know
nothing. But I'm alive.

And life still works, asking no further effort from me.