More feasts than saints to host

It’s a baggy monster, this business

a slack report from the weird sisters who

binge and purge in yet another year

of bad wind.

Blame worthy the lot of us,

even those like me who will vouchsafe

the age of wire and string

bent into pentagrams by mr difficult

and choose not to forego

the corrective good of old catastrophes

by the bird watcher who could not

but help me fathom

out of which end

to find a binocular focus.

Steeped extra long, this ministration is,

till the milk curdles into rank breath

and inimical fey utterance.

Why repeat yourself when you can badly misquote others

search and rescue an indwelling infelicitous phrase

from the same waste basket of history,

As clotted bloody Kleenex and ash pile

peer out brown-ringed styrofoam cups?

A King just might trip on the third step of

making a decision to accept surrender,

like a immobilized fly proving the tensile strength of the web that made of it a meal.

Fat white globe, indeed.

All of that history shivers my crooked spine.

a brittle pittance or pitiful monstrosity,

this tower of texts, be it

tally or tarry, but not both.

That is this business too.

All of this is a that, as though a banana skin discarded calls the sprained love of this world into being. It is said wind-dried laundry originated in Cambridge. Terrible angels too.

we have wind here in the Dakota. It never ceases too. Used to lay claim to the sunshine state but never more. Our wind and our water pours over and powers cities where the barrel racers go to die and end up becoming pouched in a hot domestic cramp, parched of the wind. No country for old horses put away wet.