you cannot buy free soul


The weather is alchemical,
the mix is changeable
& lethal – Lear will fumble
through the hailstorm, inconsolable.

The air is saturate with salt.
Even the snow is bitter
as flat vodka.  Better
to butter up the mayor, Walt –

don’t you think?  I don’t.
His orange head is swollen
full of bloody poll-pollen –
he likely toss you to the Don.

Phosphoric Osip fingers his Commedia
for signs of figlio
della figlia... down Rio
del Espiritu wend lilac, willow, etc...

Dumb Cordelia keeps her counsel.
Won’t corrode the word
filial with a coarse reward.
You cannot buy free soul,

dear heart – & salt is cheap.
Cotton bolls is de termite,
but woe unto de spite-
docta, who sow to weep.

I see a Solominka mincing
on the edge of a knife,
a precipice – fine
Ravel for violin (pining).


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