It’s an everything!
And for that many people don’t reside well within it
for that many people reside well in certain tides
of mildew, others soft linen, and others the whip of the
arid cries of locusts to the stalk
the locust to the stalk
the locust to the stalk is not a certain anything
it is an everything
that’s what makes the stalk rot.

What’s wrong with gutting the children for their mother’s milk?
What’s wrong with curdling the skin that doesn’t fit in
with the smoke stacks, or the mercury harbor, the uranium river,
what’s wrong with curdling the skin?

Arbusto thrusted in ‘77’s, scented oils in-laden
anointed little ones—
scurry critters, scurry with the weather
or the withered,
just some ordinary demon, with a skillful part
and a wispy grin.

Many kill
to profit
patient
excess
suffer.

What’s wrong with gutting the children for their mother’s milk?
What’s wrong with curdling the skin that doesn’t fit in
with strictly business, strictly existence, strictly the insistence
that we all are the,
We are the locust!
and all we’ll ever be
Arbusto, we are the energy.
Arbusto, indefinitely [.]