"Our senses note only particulars,"
states the bound lettered manual
which is teaching me this art I know
participatorily if not passably.

"We never see color, we see particular
colors. We never just touch, we touch something."
I have not yet gotten a feel for particulars but I fear
the good book is wrong; I fear that it lies.

Am I an anomaly? I do not remember
if I touched you tonight, if I heard
your voice, if I noted the color of your eyes.
I touched. I heard. I saw. But I lost my senses.



Don Cain told us,
"Boys, this is not up to snuff.
My old man thought his gift
was swell, and at no
time has he liked me
more than that son of a gun. Big wolves don't cry,
so play sheep and use your smarts
and fill his shoes up with the gunk.
Take him to a room with no doors
and plant him like the kind of
weed that grows where the sun don't shine.
Feed him to the fish," Don Cain said,
"and if he is so skilled at tithes
he will be sure to go with no fight."
Don Cain shook his hand,
let ash fall in the tray.
"He's used to the high life,"
Don Cain told us,
(and by us I mean me;
I'm the one the boss trusts)
"so he might miss the sun,
but he'll run out of strength.
I want him dead and gone, hail Lil full of grace.
My own blood sprung my own hate."
I did not ask but I did thought,
"Who are you, who can kill his kin?"
Last week some pigs were called to
the scene of our crime and
fired their guns and shot mine to death
and I am still a bit torn up.
I looked at Don Cain and said,
"I know just the thing, boss.
You want I should--" and
was met with a nod, and in short I
heaved a rock and kept Eve's line pur sang.

tall tale

she told me to





I told her to





it's not hard to