Come, oh come moola I plead,
Fill my twig with thy blead,
Thy presence makes rife,
Thy absence
Empathy your essence enwraps,
Care your core nappes,
In your blaring whines
From a thousand
Woolgathering, passing footnotes a slow,
On this path where hooves before did tow.
With the script
On the sixth day of May, 1987
Giselle Belfond awoke at five A.M
Stretched languidly in defiant
During the hours of daybreak
when I wake at the crack of dawn
I’ll follow the rhythm of your
Aphrodite, immortal, enthroned in wonder,
Sky-daughter, webstress of schemes, I entreat you
not to
In the age of America people all too fondly wage wars on the page
They sit at desks and write of
The arcane punch and whirr and strike,
pinned paper butterflies to tattoo,
kill king and create