“I fight against the gluttony of time with so many very amusing weapons,–with gestures and with attitudes and with wholly charming phrases; with tears, and with tinsel, and with sugar-coated pills, and with platitudes slightly regilded. Yes, and I fight him also with little mirrors wherein gleam confusedly the corruptions of all lust, and ruddy loyalty, and a bit of moonshine, and the pure diamond of the heart’s desire, and the opal cloudings of human compromise: but, above all, I fight that ravening dotard with the might of my own folly.” –The Way of Ecben
Columbia Heights drives out ICE.
awning scrape—on scrannel
scrimmage malign Plimsoll
one-storey this waniand—
weave of Babel leavings
umber in shrift shambles
shalloping gray ballad
all the pilcrow places
pillaged in broad bodkin
erased my path writhing
a rumble sky summoned
melody dear marbled
with motes bloodhued votive
stone that intact turned out
the time curled at world's end
it rains lightly lonesome
along Midas sidewalks
a dark chamber checks with
uncharted dull mullwork
to write epic's rap sheet
where rotten days blazon
treason & mob trouble
a tranche of hell mansions
spectacle field spoiled with
spoonerist carved runesticks
the poet learns parsnip
apparel—drone airspace
unwinding—weird fardels:
this war which seems dreamsick
& quiet streets straying
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