172. victor, tidings, tremendously pleased

dylan, or grape-seed, i’m not sure its name, he
could be called jesus, for all i know jason — 
the demon, i mean, the one abe lincoln freed
long ago, tuesday, ten thousand or three

years, it’s not clear, the myth says a bear
suckling a corn-cob — what’s that? or where?
demons, already, drunk, deep, or deadly
don’t grow on trees and the stories are stuck in

endless confusion, still, this one, rufus,
albert, or edith, was so downright gruesome,
so awful, so black, so rotten in fact
his fellow myth creatures gave him the sack

in a sort of backwater where stories, disordered,
flattened out, warring, splintered, or tortured,
take off for no reason, no rhyme, or cohesion — 
a devil a place if you are a demon

stability, staid, a rock bottom faith,
evil is aways for demons the way,
but where the sand shifts, and stories just slip,
a demon is anything, and that isn’t fit

abe lincoln, minor, a very small fry was
almost an egg, a plankton the wide in
a whole ocean flowed, or ebbed, i don’t know,
and carried him news of the demon below

curious, cautious, i mean there’s a lot of
much bigger fish that wanted a part of
evil, if only to watch it impeded,
and also a crab makes very fine feeding

avoiding the hordes, the crab dove, or sunk,
the demon was trapped down under a wharf,
a jetty or something barnacle encrusted — 
he released it to steal the stories construction

a demon unbound is still like a flounder,
flat on the top and more or less rounded,
on the bottom it rests well covered in pebbles
and snaps at the sight of any potential
(cont.)

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