Mint of the Republic
Edward Kim

The Republic is trussed. God froth the Devil, be by women everywhere. Lawyers and their opening "you"s, the Great Century Chin, busting through the glass. We allergic all-the-time. Out you waft. They molten up coinage to backflip teeth, only me neck tremble pink, though we came on by wit, Mister. For spices. For herbs. Coffee-table meat. The king's dark choice. Blackbone farmers to be the shards they tout, get axed on, publicly, while the lacemaker embalms the rapist with moon oils. Sitting cold-dead, revolver in the sky: Justice Blood. She seeing at you. What you gonedo.