composte

I keep it more real than realty
torn born-again amigos like imbroglio
selling plots like Oh No, Yes Go
stop on red, flow growing green on grow
Legos floating into place so

catch me
selling fiction like pulp painters,
sculpted duct pipes exclaiming
GAS [comma]
T-H-I-S I-S W-H-A-T I A-M
many parts becoming whole again
on the roll again, buttered as cluttered
rooms of clergymen grooms: Yessir,
I stole the grain bin, robbed the bank,
except that it stank
there they stored rotting things
instead of money. It wasn't
a financial institution,
but an illusion. The pious
inscribe sacrament in their bodies
and need no cobwebs to
hide their dead.