Here's a curious piece from the D.O.F.E. parable cycle about freedom, a timely theme.


Hound Men

Who is dischained holds five dogs’ leads.
His head turned West, his foot
tight inside his boot; the first dog
is his active body,

that perilously scales the geographies,
and forces the materials around itself.
The second dog sees him
with impossible clarity, what they know

together is a mystery entumbled in a vent
of discretion, the howl of restricted
melody winds the vice purpling the legs of the night.
The third dog goes before his vision

huffing slobber about the path,
the soiling inner pinkness of his motive.
The Fourth Dog paws coins
out of what tissues can be clawed apart.

The fifth, and final dog dies
drown with his snout in the bog.
Then he is dischained!

The dogs heave him off the throne of his stance,
into the dry, dry dust of the floor,
where foot and hoof traipse the mess

of the highways. As the precious fashioned
bauble tumbles from the stricken magistrate’s hands
clattering into renumerary form on the frigid

iron stairs of misconduct, the dischained man
digests the church of his vision in his furnace-like
bastion of mobile doubt.