Sho

(a torchon after Indigo Weller)

Some need some Body
or more to ape sweat
on some site. Bloody

purl or dirty spit
hocked up for to show
who gets eaten. Rig

Body up. Bough bow
to breeze a lazed jig
and sway to grig’s good

fiddling. Pine-deep
dusk, a spot where stood
Body. Thus they clap

when I mount banc’, jig
up the lectern. Bow
to say, “it’s all good,”

we, gathered, withstood
the bends of dives deep
er, darker. They clap

as I get down. Sweat
highlights my body,
how meats dyed bloody

look fresher for show
ing, I got deep, spit
out my mouth, a rig

id red rind. Bloody
melon. Ha! No sweat!
Joking! Nobody

knows the trouble. Rig
full o’ Deus. “Sho
gwine fhx dis mess.” Spit

in tragedy’s good
eye! “This one’s called. . . .” Jig
ger gogglers then bow

housefully. They clap.
“. . . be misundeeeerstoooood!”
Hang notes high or deep,

make my tongue a bow—
what’s the gift?! My good
song vox? The gift?!?! Jig

gle nickels from deep
down my craw. They clap.
I’se so jolly! Stood

on that bank. Body
picked over, blood E
rato! Braxton’s sweat

y brow syndrome®, spit
out a sax bell wring
a negrocious show

of feels. Fa sho, sweat
equals work. Bloody
inkpot of Body,

I stay nib dipped, show
never run dry! Rig
orously, I spit

out stressed feet. Lines jig!
Ha ha ha ha!!!! good
one [that/I] is, bow

deep but not out. Stood,
shining, dim. They clap,
waves slapping hulls. Deep

don’t mean sunken; good’s
not yummy, right?! Bow,
blanched with foam, jig-jigs.

“This one’s called. . .”—they clap—
“‘_ _ _ ?_ _ _ _ _ _ ? _ _ _ _ _barrow.’ So much dep
ends / upon / dead_ _ _ _ _ _ _”; stood,

I, on that bloody
rise of sweet Body;
there you is, too. Sweat

it, let’s. They clap—“Rig
ht?” some ask, post. Spit
tle-lipped: I said: “Sho.