the name will be the title,
length an object.

all else is waxed and tied
as usual, making
it unusual. when i explained,
she asked why will you do
that?

because of the chained libaries,
burning books, the secrets
you see? no, I don’t
she replied.

we worked on quietly
together.

brock.



the badger was dead by the side

of the road.





walking,

i passed the other side.





returning on that side i stopped to look.



it did not smell.



it was just dead.



brock.

the light etches
the retinal disk,

plastered in
blue--
green--
red--
bands,
super-positioned
in the mildewed afterglow of
an exigent god--

garrulous,

too upright for death.

Patron of all my Saints,
Cosīn to my sīn,
Right angled with angels.
St. Michael--tell me where to go.
I love you like Songs of Song---
Felt all of your love play with the entropy of existence---
Entangled---
Ecclesiastic: turn, turn, turn.
Time—entropied away.

They tell us
They love us
We put them
Above us
And with their
Attention economies
Drug us
And hug us
With warmth
Of embracing
A parent
Society shrugs
Off the bugs
Are inherent
Systemically
Hard-wired,
Virulent
Sentiment
Hasn’t yet made me a patriot
Actor
But rather
Appears
A contributing factor
To war
In its normalcy
All out more
Feeding
Its ravenous industry
Furnaces churning
Out cultural proxies
But all of its gods
Are just monkies
With poxies 🙊