those monks are blazing again

as we autonomously explain the truth to our

lesser selves imparting roots of indication,

tattooed repeatedly on our supposed communal

but culturally opiated persona and, despondently,

imagined place amongst the other names in the ledgers…

within our envy we decimate those who safeguard our spirits

and ignite them on their knees in duty as our only gods…
who do we imagine we pray to?



these are rice paper images, only silhouettes,
rived from the wind of lovers and thieves with no regard

to the fierce paw puppets they generate

in their heat of always assaying to be of focal importance

in conniving comparison, as nature freaks the only path left

for its god to operate in protection…devoting only small doses of the

undercurrent as to impart an increase merely shouldered

by the temperate, necessary to safeguard the moving of the epicyclic gears



this is not a wheel…but these are wheels

rounds of heart and rounds of scotch

rounds of being exposed by contribution

and readily recognized degenerate infancy

yes…a perfervid and frail world indeed

a frail world to love in…to pray in

to whorl in to, alas, laugh in

let us laugh

K. Roberti