On Providence
Providence brought the hustle and the,
Battle of five thousand souls.
The beehive of the blood of the city's politics:
Impersonator, Emcee, Exotic Dancer, Hillary Clinton.
I spent the map in streams and rivers,
Flooded by open spaces, wide roads, and triple-decker housing.
Truth is Providence.
That town, at night, could sing . . .
Dunmore, somber in the golden sands,
Fosters a luxuriously crispy skin.
He will take up the prophecy of changeless eternity,
And other matters entirely local.
In this Portugese Empire.
A shirtless man spinning flaming chains stands,
He was killed by Connecticut.
Providence made him Commodore of California.
Transcending space, and inspired by His will,
Providence is almost always kindness.
With theologians such a sizable minority.
All, surely, opponents of God.
Providence is a punishment.
Promises you shouldn't take,
Promises you think about.
Years of free will, an illusion.
We are the King of our Being.
Especially those beautiful in sin,
The splendid fruits of our moral virtue.
Providence will ultimately be neither happy, nor good.
There were a few shillings of air rushing down.
The gale attained its vibrations.
Wreck and roots, twisted, torn and bound by the babe.
Providence, in ashes, ending.
