jim leftwich, poem, from six months aint no sentence, book 182

forl American, extooth braf
represent illusic
terrifix of endorsememe
reactionary election
of realities, changes
pro-than the albeit
middle growling theocracy,
nomination we carrot
zombi-wash. class and
irrigation grooming our
disgust. all soups are
sour at the carnival of
archetypal madness. into
so frequern we attire
some media vents of
overwhelming pool-set,
hirm cour, hat-fatigue
preponderarc floats with
them over the
anti-establishment week.
overrun and vertiginous,
the sleep of reason
micromanages an ugly
political umpire quilting
the gold-mine purple on
this lack. bluster struggles
for an unfortunate
reification of celebrated
nonsense, to rectify
engaged exposure, close
othe snowing the real.