“they don’t stop at their wrists.”

they don’t stop at their wrists.  they don’t stop,
when they mix their 26,
the trigonometry of keys as they drop,
the flippant hits, the choice picks.

ten tentacles pry a lie into reality,
as the gofer goes for gold.
meme-splicing with dr.-moreaux morality,
a gaggle of metaphors fold—

as orderly as a fort of fortune cookies
and as dexterous as a desk
free hands dance to grant these beasts release,
then hit Enter for what’s next.

they’re both digging like a sun dog in the fog
to learn amorphous lore,
to pawn the dawn, to turn in their tír na nóg,
trade a window for a door,

while forever fixing what can never be fixed,
being touched, ipso facto this,
never halting these experiments, mixing 26,
the trig of digging in the mist.

Lamplight While the Day Holds On

krazy glue and crack and all
that congeal,

let them,

epoxy and crystals and all things men grow,

let them;

they’re bound by nothing

the gutturals and caterwauls
of everything animal in the park,
everything animal that’s not animal,
hurling about like replications,

they bind nothing,

and then above a sloping path,
a lamp of liquid light

holds like a headache, holds on
while dusk burns pansy bright,
tries to gather something
out of the shade

on the way by—

who would look up
when there’s somewhere to go?

daytime will sting when it’s not
let go of

by those that make time,
even by some who kill it,

warming their solutions like babies’ milks,
in beds

but the beds are bedrolls on concrete;
like liquid diets
digested, finished like parkfires

to gather something out of the long shadow
on the way by,

let them run;

they’ve bound nothing.

Agrimmeer (or ‘Ag’) was born in New Haven, Connecticut, left there, and wandered almost everywhere in Texas. In an era of pestilence, one night in a drunken fit he accidentally summoned a muse, and this visitation had some news about poetry. She flatly told him she had the greatest of the craft in store for the earth and even boasted that her art would someday save that place. Printed here, it’s maybe heresy, but Ag believes. He’s trying to keep that flavor of faith and in doing so recently had some poetry in Covid Art REsource (CARE).

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