Pop goes your weasel

in mellifluous cloud

of unknown gasses

carotid arteries of the woe-begones

I can no longer think

with a hole in my head

Incontinent, as time

shits the slow minutes

that weep through the barrier

of ill intentions and seep out

like plasma onto the subsurface

of our minutiae

retrovirus of pandemic

spreading fingers inside a body

to enrapture and assimilate

for the survival of the whos and whats

and the gun-metal wants of

the wardog rabid malcontent

I have witnessed biting

his fleas in my fenced back yard

electric eyes don’t blink and never

shed tears on what they witness

staring fixed at all or none

conversion 2.0 is fear

massive convictions are fraught

in netting, pulled from the C’s

of negligence and commonality

through a fit to give what you get

voting downtown hard times

convolute the meanings

and instead homesteaders

and ranchers continue to…