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.
For Every Tib and Tom Cat
39. bole perforated
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