arcane matter out of place

"Fearnaught repels in snowmite reveries,"

a flaky, can-shaking, cardamom-armpitted woman

spices speechfood at the intersection of "Nettled Nun,

Quinoa Quim."  Her rectum is

a wrack, wet paper pulped into underskirts.

But you came here to praise the crazy - not

taste them - and it is insoluble

that someone won't "give a frightened fuck for my husband,"

some nameless, wild turkey

on a bar-paned floor above another floor.  But

you came here to raise the deranged - not rehearse

them.  Are they the necessary mediums of what

we will not whimper or shout out loud

to unseen anyones on a street corner,

where some cold, saltwashed landhag holds

her final, curbstone redoubt, undoubtedly with purpose?

Though someone is able only to surmise.

It may be whole cloth, coin in can.