Fourwords

Cardinal cads say,
south scours wests
for bests and their brine
and mine is indicated 
in the barbs wired 
in parallel to the paramours
(love lands)
whose tails never turn
unless a rooster cloves
and bears witness to 
ungulate hooves.

Devil be detailed
or not at all.
That's the calling
of a Dante,
a fire,
a tired list 
of indefinite particles
guaranteed to tee up
a culture for its roast
and smoke it out of the
over-the-ground.

When climates live
between gods and 
the big G,
there is not a lot 
to converse with;
but talk we shall
and will these words
rain the rain that Spain 
and Maine refuse to 
entertain?

Ask yourself,
tell yourself,
will you be 
the flea on the head
of this little listing world?
Or will you scratch yourself
and consider your head 
large, charged, lit?