Dad, high on inscrutability and his unconscious drive toward the meretricious, undoes the buzzing crust that baked him in place and disinterrs himself to give one final, lacerating lecture; weeds crush his memorial bust 5 with an enduring, gorgeous green he'd scorn. Fearing the CIA and copper Kremlin in his West VA cave, his fevered eyes dripped in a marsupial's querulous skull as he cradled a shotgun's bucking butt to his shaved cheek rummaging for snagged fowl on the waste acres of his estate. 10 "Interlopers... Boys, when the world inverts this time and the kikes come howling for your heart, nothing will be saved." His fat breathing heaved, "buy gold coins." What we cannot remember cannot save us. Blinking and appalled, I dream that the sun is one of us, like my dad, 15 foredoomed, fated, monstrously alive. Disasters livened him, the minor death of a fly, stumbling and stumbling against the windowpane; the gross head all eyes, one damaged eye, limned in light. Dust leaps from the stone I skip, dust falls... 20 I circle back: dust laps his grave.
From the collection "XXX Sonnets"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.