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You’re so brave, you camp-followers of Cain—
after Baudelaire, yet! Shit-shoveling first father,
your visa was validated
when that cretinous cudgel whammed the wandering
flock’s shepherd, that day…
I have always backed off from the word.
In the Thirties Europe meant French. But was it only then? Not in earlier centuries? A bloody lesson learned that Europe was Balmazújváros as well as Notre…
Wind bells over the river with an
Indian name: transplanted homelessness
disguised as a transplanted home.
The garden jingles. Odorous sandalwood censers,
kimonos and saris flashing well among
the…