Forgive my fat mouth! Topsy-

turvy glutton.

Will, I wither straight

to you, from Atlantic City’s glitz, whatever sin

I wish I was an anti-type, but, I’m dull, I’m over

hyped. Today,

Who would miss it if it wasn’t gone?

Did they hang

their heads

I was born in a city of blademakers,

The shimenawa, sacred rope, hangs

from the shrine gate,

The walls of the two towers pick up their plaster and dust sucking upwards into blue.

She knows who I am. She even knows when I wonder

if she knows

Twenty right arms, sometimes together, but mostly not,

arc cutlasses in wide, irregular swings, nearly throwing themselves