All the Seasons of Bread

Winterval has no changes. Helioblade in the arctic sperm anemones. I’d do it for the skull
-suckers

I’d do it for the silences of green you’ve carried

and the salt of the horse

I’d do it for piles of soft bread in the late afternoon.

Bread is a technology of the family. The heirloom of aristocracy ransomed at the table, winking rectal irises in a way fomenting envy. A polemic against the bourgeoisie in its most vulgar form. Draw from it the frail technique of its own machine.

They who stay in the yeast lace on the rectangular daisy

wristed as blue the vetiver to pixie a dream

those who pray in flak jackets, coped uglily with the cabbages.

The wares of the merchant class beast up in the umber, their fist-sized gifts polished into agates, apothecaries’ trinkets, and even the occasional memento. A faerie king may not use his own coin, save for a dreary sigil drab enough to sell. Everyone should be an enemy of bread. Those rations only buy seconds on the battlefield. Athens thinks it’s a tool but I haven’t had much luck. Better get on that tightrope and start teething. Winterlude has everyone hushed.

Elbows bruised as bright as beryl

For all it was worth paletting the pi to a pew, to and why I

could never walk or land, this folie à deux of graces ecce homme’d

This flaming slug

lubricated by cinnamon

Summercurial flattery and gumptive aplomb

each new persona of starless skies

this germ of suppleness in my gin-poisoned veins

whose kinks dance with chimeras.

Those vices are fictions of the heart and Gaia is a sine qua non of the baby teeth I keelhauled to nirvana. Rome bodes ill for the waltz girl lolling in the Danube. Come whoring for the wind, sire; come with your frescoes pornate. What is cult-ruled and what criosphinx could weep like the sun? It’s a game of frothing at the mouth. Us and the world. Two old rams crashing into each other, ricocheting, caroming, effluxing into one another, a dust of sparks as quiet as the echo of each cornsilk horn.

I’d never herd the sheep again, had I glided on straining shoulders

a cataclimate aficionado barefoot on the igloo’s floor.

Sometimes a piece of the fire

lunges like a rose in my mouth.

Worth is wastage in a world without end, its highland or the pit, my cousin so tame. To the rascal fates of asphodelic auteurs, I avow my indifference to the past, the present and especially the future, and that platitude of the self-mongering I. Your fan-fucked acumen aprons the poor, and abundance, by contrast, filches its lice—abject, the masticatory acolytes of a scorned and despised nation! Had they cupped their hands for alms, I’d have been a better brother. I’d neuter those buffs with a bite. I’d watch the thieves go in and out. Thousands of other soldiers I’d given up drenched in lapis.

Fare thee well o’er your feast of shame. The abattoir of fauna grows rancid between each tournament. After mouthing the words, the manna tastes bitter. My brother and I, a wolf’s milk and a woman—sometimes a piece of truth, sometimes a cliché or two—abstinence a fad and parenthood a fable. All the seasons of bread, the minstrel shows and the movies in our heads. The city is empty. Gaiety is in de facto descent, and the thunder wonderful splattering its bells on the frail graphite of my shorelines. Abscond with me to the next station, where I’d falter less for having been so hungry, like a putrid alloy of doves, drossed and degassed the summer after the war.

Allegiant for the moment, I return to my city with a head full of drums.

And for stardom in the audience of bats

altruisted a pittance

of lacrimations in the heat of the fray.

I call it the la-la caress of sanitarian fugues
sought and then entertained in the thicket

Loathe me and let my substance drain
for eld of ethereal sand shivering undoing so to sake my place

Went imbued in precision not the natal yellow moment
an ineffable synonym conquered by the prodigal public land
in sequence to a metaphor that can’t be unmade.

Pasturbating the monochrome
sacred for a moment

The bays of effect choked; oh so jovial,

as if lightning’s livid price would expel

that full spectrum salamander from my sinus—

and nothing; only wall of grain, wall of grain, wall of grain...