A stanza per week

An eyelash fell upon my hand.
A camouflaged man had an epiphany in the undergrowth:
now Zen Buddha has a bone to pick
but that brand of told-you-so tends to keep the lights on
(veni vixi).

Oh, ’twas a beautiful era
all shiny, and Ohm killed
the goddess on an over/under
between “mission accomplished” and
“predilection for stakes one cannot refuse”

or loyal neoamericana in seven minus
three dimensions
where reparations gave the sandman a run for his money.
Keep it upstairs, for goodness sake.
Save it for the random act of violence.









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