the poet’s word albatrossed
to the secret villain,
hanging on like stink
from decadent fish.
this is our RSVP, their
invitation to KILL POETS.
not with censorship,
with bullets.
– Hoc Scripsi
I have a minor obsession with being assassinated, I think I’ve mentioned this before but sometimes we all repeat ourselves don’t we. Maybe in a past life, somewhere in Argentina or El Salvador I was disappeared permanently. The victim of some nations dictator extreme rendition.
Or maybe I was a cuddly bunny rabbit in hunting season. If so I hope that my name was Theodore and the family that ate me enjoyed the meal.
whatever I was, now I am a poet and consider it a poets duty to be a threat to both the vox popoli and the powers that be.
this is how I get after storing things in the attic, small confined space and all.
the platitudes of willful resemblance 