For the Executive Director of the Fallen

In memoriam Liam Rector The little boy crying out Weenie Weenie in self-panicking delight, waving his little cock under the banner of the sun, seemed pure Blake, all anarchy and energy, an innocence unfrightened of itself that shook the lake's waters and unsettled the strained composures and appointed certainties of whatever Absolute Speaker had been ranting in my brain: Peace Through Strength Justice Must Be Ours— so many demon faces in the glass city. Each pubic triangle seemed, under the bathing suits, to grow electrical and crackle with a sexual shock that made me turn my face away: and who should be there but you, my dear Lord of Misrule, blowing smoke in all our faces, the clean bullet hole in your forehead above your self-ironic smile: Don't let the monkeys stop typing