I know where quiet comes from.

It floats beneath the stilled crocus;
an explorer’s corpse in Arctic drifts;
swampland graveyard in October mist.

Quiet is buried contraband
in clenched cold bony fingers.
Quiet the jungle before the ambush.

I know where wind comes from

Underbelly turbulence,
cooled ions tryst in heat.
Mercurial witchy twisting air
exploding lungs gargle for breath.

I know where anger comes from

Rocks split under force of scorn,
wet hot lavas, magma and ore.
furnaces of betrayal, rivers of semen,
stolen glances, forbidden touches,
white hot rings scorching everyone.

+ + + + + + + +

The function of parameters is
to fence the pasture:
of law, to maintain solid lines.
Someone to lime the dead,
seduce the masses, capture the flag.

I’ve watched the bull’s horn go in,
and rivals brawl until they drop.
Lovers run and they run,
red flags all over the field.


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