· the cultural society ·

I, Catastrophe, from the white tails inside slab cities, confront a committee of all my years past, govern the wild fowl until her wind takes my voice               and away with it runs   I, Misbegotten, don’t have               what I don’t know. Maybe someone sings from plucked rooster strings a morning cast in broken bottles — […]

I admit little deaths. City lung-shards                                      pulp cigarettes. Dust, zero aperture. So the causeway imitates                                      the dial of weathervanes My caws’ red-combed sweeping. Eyes as the reason                                     we can’t see, I toss the seed into the river. As if a penny can turn itself.                                      In a palm, gleaming. I become an albeit. […]

spill brief in don’t a cardhouse shuffle candles lately hands over so it’s official ambassador’s eyelet wilts the steady in array wrapped in whir of vertigo’s covert velvet preps an outwards spark of keepsake kept klepto will weigh

Aelius, from ancient Lamus as those elder Lamiae   read the family lineage       in the social register. The line’s founder they say held Formiae’s walls   and Marica’s shore where       the River Liris swims — broad dominion. Tomorrow leaves will litter the grove,   seaweed the beach, unless       the crow — rain’s augur — deceives. Gather dry wood […]

Intrepid then, now a throb rattles the trunk                as circular thought interrupts the impulse to jot it all down. Body work sealed, blown clear by a drier blue exhaust.