Faberge, Flaubert, Rimbaud, Verlaine.
Poor Montaigne on his estate,
Poorer still the illiterate tribute,
Arms, legs, courts abusing the ruffian class,
Themselves abjured, adored from distances
Shores of the Americas, the Southern hemisphere
Green as independence.

Intermittent, accosted but of the Grand Army
Inscripted as the foreign tongue of laws,
The smear campaigns as crusades for wealth in holy lands.
True inner riches born in a war of contemplation,
Enriching by degree the army, the warriors,
The individual in her wilderness.
She pays no one.
All comes as tribute to her sandaled toes,
Of souls long linked as chain to anchor
With each of us frosted, aggrieved,
Looking out for better days,
Better as if we left out and forgot a most important philosopher,
Political, indefinite, talking, writing,
The blurb of an orb, a sphere, a perfect circle,
Oracular, mathematic, direct, translatable as common sense and jingo,
Commerce and leisure enfolded to blossom one day,
A far day unless we take notice and
Harbor the lost kings of the mind with our silence,
Our consideration and probe.

Not quite ethical,
Not quite fair as power says to play:
My way, beastly
Self evident and banal.

The snow falls,
The wind picks up what it can.
Pretentious, presumptuous,
Defend yourselves as nature tends water
By lake, mist or ice,
By trial and by fire,
Boiled to phase change, state craft, oblivion.

Enriched but then busted like excess wasted,
Like wealth cleaved from process,
From factory floor and farm.
From jail and the island of England,
Supper, sleep, school.
Voltaire entertains us better,
Wigs and white pasty make up.
Relationships enhanced by honesty;
Ha laughing.