Rhythm, a sequence in time repeated, featured in dance: an early moving picture demonstrates the waltz. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In hell, the days are different—

you have to wash cars

or shave shirts, etc.

The rhythm in crime waves

expels

a desiccant

a cheat

to thrill

and if one kills one,

who goes there?

And if one

just now fucks up

and dies

does mercy hide it?

Sex is rhythm too, so is

making love

and masturbation—

the pacification of

to and fro

of up

and down

and in and out.

My routine is rhythm and I

know me, and when it

stops, I stop too.

Hell has

no rhythm, you have to smoke

stars, or eat ribbon, etc.

The dog resting barrel-rolled

on the cool

covered

concrete

chest     rises      and

falls

a snort

and a little heart

beats.

A pour without

spilling

a slow dance

reciting the Pledge—

all rhythms.

The days are

different in hell,

the moon can’t clock them, what is

probably

missed most.

Falls of flower vines veil

The ceiling unobserved

Buried in their growth—

Call these the first revision

Elysian lath walls

The cool concrete floor

A square space softened LC4—

Composed revision two

Her figure blurs the white wash

Whose shadow looks back

For the moment to reveal

The convergence of patterns

She waits sacrificial for the flash

Or else temptation wrapt

Corporeal approach

The steel worn necklace warmed

Her foot braces the corner

Plain moulding divides her

She uses memory to loose

Her elevated legs

And the balanced leather glove

That is revision three

I saw a place that lived and died—

Where crows flew in the same constellation

As years before, and mothers

Collected mechanical memories

Fastened to rings and scarves,

While wives read letters and cursed their Gods.

Daughters and sons fixed buttons to holes,

And dogs reminisced on obedient scents—

Searching a final command

Amongst scattered stone cold masters.

Projected in my mind, the tactile

Rock and sweat, the muddy earth,

Mopped grass tufts and raked coal scuppers

Leaning two sides instead of four,

And a shaken tower facade

Shaping the broken landscape.

The tracks ended abruptly,

They fell in a swirl of weapons and fists,

Of boots and metal and markers.

Steamy rusted blood had waft its last

Across soggy open pitch

Where cemeteries claimed their place

Rising from the mire, plotted

Upon the wake of will and weapon.

Last April they washed them clean,

Hauling away men’s stones.

I watched the signs of fortification

Stir across the space with attrition,

Precision and blind religious faith—

Ten more feet by November

And every year is antebellum,

This place filled with holes

And roads piled high with bones

And ancient standards desecrated—

Time does not heal these.

I saw the murder flying through the pasty sky,

Felt the icy clay in my fists go numb,

And cold gauzy darkness overcome.

On my fixed horizon loomed Alcazar,

Built by Tantilian soldiers.

Three quarters is not enough

To save men’s souls,

Yet two more seasons at least were needed

To groom the boys as men.