The Iron Page

No matter the account,
the miser, the fate. Fascist,
those are not always Nazis.

Forget the father, the
one, the mine. Everyday,
I write a different book.

Fascist bones do not always
mean Nazi bones. Twistin’.
Ragged, in pale, green-

blue veins. Sometimes nice—
just look at it, disease!
No one has lived from (not yet).

Or medicines. Overpriced.
The Nazis dead. The fascists,
more, and alive.

Surplus at the ever-ready.
Who controls the accelerants
of flow, of accounts, of

misery, of rage?

The fathers, the one, the mine.
Everyday. Every one. I write
a different book.

Another one found dead.
Wants to go home, wants
just to go rest.

Back & hand or rocks & sides;
Who’s stopping this? A first
morning high.

Imagine this. The Nazis are
not. All of
Western Spirit means not

always much. The racists.
The fascists, more and
alive. Who was he

writing? Was that a man?
Everyday, I try. An elliptic
screed. I read.