I do not speak this language term. Soft fasten
pulp prosperity war. Mr. Cleric, Mr. Layman, name
a “Chaplin” for the Aryan nation. Beat them
with baseball bats and feed their
texts or bodies through a shredder. I acted
only under orders, your honor, I did
chains temple bricks and feet of clay.
Too many deictics neuters and feminine rhymes
for this to be an American sonnet. Free to starve
to kill to speak someone else’s mind.
My name is datum, my nature is
a gift. Oriel of oriole orisons sea
to shining scent, purged of scenic estuaries
methodical fjords and transient
sporting utility vehicles. My name is torture,
the best penetrant your money
can buy. A flag in every classroom, boiled
head in every pot: your sparrows
are numbered, ticked them off on nine
curled fingers and a twinkle toe.
Pull out before you do it, make sure the camera
has a clear shot. Money in the bank. For
casualties read casual tears, for remorse read
remoras, for regrettable errors read triumphant ner
era. Galley proof slaves. Resentment
spawned a bright and shining obsession, poising thought
against the blurred third-hand idea: truth is to
beauty as duck is to rabbit. Quack quack, said the
poet, which echoed through the fish-houses.