the banality of

evil or love,
choose your toxin

step up.

your history extends
beyond the bounds of propriety.

but who are you?

We smile full
behind a cedar fan, a mintchip notion

of win and lose,
lie or some state

so subtle that even Albert Speer
would select the fifth and shudder.

faceless

on which wrist
do you flaunt your watch?

you are sinister
enough without pretending
to negotiate left-handed

all those plots—
verdant assassinations.

sochi hopeful

to see you again ! but at sochi,
of all places. it is not the terrorists
who perturb my senses;

it is that inappropriate
mild weather.

flotsam emporium

codes ravel, cobwebs of recollect
fingertipped—the too late
understanding.

murdered because of a sharp
tongue and bandit uterus

and as I read languid
on a carpet of curves and jerks,

I breathe renewed false memories,
the fetid Treblinka curse.

The Canadian Dollar

sickeningly,
I sink just like
conservative Canadian
currency.

Eleventh Act: The Janus Profile

in profile, you are,
Stalin, could you ask for more?

every father a tyrant,
each daughter, an uncertain raft.

deathbed rituals are
everything until they fade
and disappear.

and what
of love?

does it list
toward prior or beyond?

Father,
your smile was
all

I knew of sense.