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

“Every man is a Rimbaud issue, be mine as we consider
relaxing colloquy, northern flickers w/ masked ducks or
an illustrator in oils at noon, someone who routinely does things
that would be awesome if intentional.

Purple black teal will be exaggerated.”
The son is in control, revealed by the sounding-it-out tools.

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

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