Okay, maybe there is U.S. fascism.
It’s now affected me, therefore it is.
A parlor-game’s gray host transforms when his
parlor is the pitch, and many a church-door schism
turns out to be mere book-to-sell tourism
when cops turn up and—holy shit!—mean bus-
iness! Doktorprofessor’s Niemöllerian quiz
sucks snake tail—O, Ouroboran tropism
of contrarian come-down, what hast thou wrought, O Lord,
cracked skulls foundation babel’s ivory height—
the tower sways; the scales of judgment creak;
he didn’t really care, he was just bored,
better by far to be bruited than right,
until the boxcars open, and you freak.