of sand-pay

The partisan stall is finite, adroit, anti-maleficent,
direct, and prepared for dull strident daylight –
pitched to the people like an empire portending
to stay while taking the elderly gambling

96 year olds taking to kids to park river land
only to get towed for back injuries being insufficient,
fire engines ticketed on the highway by an officer
who believes he will go to Mars in his lifetime

not realizing us rug rats are the last thing Hilary needs,
but will foment your lineage once you are teething,
once you have cemented your royal chain crevice of war,
they all tear up like the KKK in scrimmage with day-shown bats
howling at each other’s footsteps and sailing crooked towards noon
the acrobats in the patriarch’s stables sip clouds of death along the way