A murderer’s son asks for a poem about poetry,
a quick exit from cultural chance and underworld bloodlines.

“Every man is a Rimbaud issue, be mine as we consider
relax words, northern flickers w/ masked ducks or
a painter at noon, someone who routinely does things
that would be awesome if intentional.

Purple black teal are exaggerated.” The other murderers we’re in control,
revealed by the sounding-it-out tools.

Very good: Very goo. I mean knocking the repenters
off, throwing knives, wrecking them from the inside, slicing up!

“A game of obedience is long overdue. And I’m back in the dog pound, now
reading and writing without an attorney. That’s how the paint sails.”