no joy in transgression…

avuncular and antediluvian

my four uncles speak of biblical rains:
¡lo que viene por ahí!

i’m conducting my cornu and sistrum band
we make a heavenly racket
there is dispatch in our notes
alacrity in our fingers
smell of ozone and electricity fill the air

water breaches the open windows

las alondras cantan en maltusiano:
los peregrinos estan perdidos
sálvese quien pueda

a call from paducah transits
through tallahassee threw little havana
thru el cayo matahambre
to a mamey stand in cienfuegos
reduced to trecefuegos
in thee apocalyptic downpour

where is the dignity in that, cock robin?
why are you still in caracas?
what is the sense in that, mr platt?
it’s overstuffed in hell these days

i’m outta’ space & i sistrumate one last clang

there is no joy in transgression anymore
it’s our new default setting

one uncle spits & pogos
rises in declension:
if they ain’t no one left after the storm better for us

u know about us

This is Fall, at 10:02 a.m., on 10/21/2020. Jamaica Plain, MA. (21/31)

“… this is
consistent with what we know about human

that human beings take profound
satisfaction in doing harm, particularly
unconscious harm…”

— Louise Glück / “Persephone The Wanderer”

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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