39. bole perforated

cheap potshot








pertinently unsated with the vivid wakes

the jeweled variegated volumes that run triumphantly

toward my untoward posterity.



overnight rapt with the mundane predicaments.



enthralled at the windows, the eyes chronicle collections of bedrooms

aspects of succulent exception, of superabundant prurience.



but now the sudden fright of the customary monster intervenes.



listening twice to the same thug, the same cancerous witch

telling me (and the darker barrel of a shotgun pushes at my stumpy nose)

to tackle manliness, or else.



opulent enervate themselves the chapters of such ornate anathema.



my wood, with the same negative alacrity, the same slow cadence

always striven for in the unparalleled wood of every tree

breaths in diminishing prolixity.



i’ll repent tomorrow, I insinuate, too cool, when the bullet flies.



once resonant, my wood, now crammed with portions apocryphal

sedulously, diligently, cracks, combusts, turns to ashes.