The king-on-bundles-of-leaves— daddy of the threshold of grace my 'kerchief is minted in its pack I will need it later for my blood.

We all are busy shouting we all are busy swearing

reeking still as if in fettered silence— our fate as a surging tide.

Dreams die to the glory of famished G.o.ds spring unrefined, of mineral waters,

can't we s.h.i.+eld our nests from caustic winds?

If you examine the stories

and force them through a sieve you will see like I see—

the pot was leaking before it broke.

They laughed, we laughed, and they laughed we cried, they laughed and laughed and laughed; they took our images to the stage,

we uncoated our folly for their eyes.

We walk backing the sun that makes us proud we sleep looking the sun in the eye but

receive no illumination for our awkward hearts.

Men thought liberally but within frames that limit expansion breakaway thought-lines from the square

we have fed their heart to the crow.

Of age yet unweaned

and they yanked us off the breast of time…

The tortoise was a bit wiser the tortoise was a bit wiser

he went stealing f.a.ggots from foreign fires, saw antimony in a resident's eye

Quickly he ran he grew a lab

conjured a formula

conceived some jargons to blow the mind.

But do you see them, my storytelling fathers they adore the surface and swear at digging.

If they see a thing, a line of puzzle

they do not understand they will cook a myth

Commission an image they will build a shrine summon to fiesta

and knot a lineage.

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Everything had a G.o.d— secret primordial names

and a concoction of chants for trapping its essence.

The G.o.ds of the fireplace of fist-crammed morsels of shrimped vege-stew of… of… of…

Show a line of puzzle they will spill some blood gather their fears

they will spill some blood.

O father, do not stop me let me wipe my tears with dry-dead-leaves

There are no bandages in here 'kerchief I will need you later for my blood

I will need you later for my blood…