poems corpsify us—prematurely drain us refill us wit h ancient humor
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A poem is a form of exhaustion— boundless The body keeps giving. The spirit —mispronounced
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shariden an oven left to cool for a century
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Atrocities distant lands Then standing in front of skulls drawn into opaque darkness behind the bone, standing there, I was contributing too the pile— the tower, the temple of idols to Mary?
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There is a white square— I do not see, but feel with my throat— silent at odds with the small, amnesiac world I’ve created with my decisions desires errors lack of remembering. The white square hovers parallel to the ground, The sky seen from an open grave—
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The skulls were parental. rejected a chorus
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Did mushrooms grow after rain? Did flowers? Yes, one mushroom cont.
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The longer I play this game with military paper shouting through the wall the more or less ground beef I become that eating will resolve looking long across the high desert grasslands
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aliens situate ama as people human people, hungry I slept on top of a tower and watched a horse’s Bouncing penis I sketched the light fixtures in a church turned into a light source
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Who dreams of burning the pagoda down. Where it touches the sky twin eyes red mask I sit below a tree The tree cures my headaches slender arms victims listen to my headache refrains I don’t want to feel my reflection leap out of the pond and land on my back (my neck) the fish of my reflection soothe me small fish hanging from the pagoda’s eaves if you cannot climb it— you have to bring it down to you you don’t have a broom and are not an old lady
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Surely there are people you forgot— when you saw them, wasn’t?
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occasionally I see the woman frozen as a horse like the guardian of her megalithic sentence—
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corpse poem Google Bks↓
Is it true?
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Where there is an inexplicable rock the earth rests beneath it is left to fend for itself how it chooses to populate itself vegetation
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The swamp hen edges the sub-tropical gully like a drone who wants to suck 13lack cows dirty sheep the prestige
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I approach the altar.Fathers always clutching, wearing white burying their face in their father’s armed; were loved deserved to be visited ApparentlyI approach the altar.
dirt. walls are cool. The sun cannot penetrate. tails hanging from timber beams A paean to the missing dead; the only thing that was expected, was unexpected. What place, where were we going? I don’t see art, but old men given everything they asked for, including everything they did not ask for. Paint children blue Paint children sitting in dirt, clutching their knees. makeshift, beautiful? She told us where the dirt came from, I forget (the mountain),I approach the altar
The sun Shines through cracks in the wall On faces of strangers Materializing cracks the faces of strangers stops are shining, holes in the wall lizards, spiders, mice, strangers assuage their depression ...I approach the altar
The strait is behind me I approach the mirror If I can see The strait I am Invisible, will be fortified Bridges inside me faces hang over the rail “in solitude, asylum, or restraint”I approach the altar
The strait in The back of my head implores the mirror to be Stronger, for the reflection To decide? The strait is a commitment Lunar specialtiesI approach the altar
not sound
infects the way I have been thinking? I see the sun in a piece of clay I see yellow in black stone I approach the altar a woman rubbing trees Between her hands In a worshipful attitude to translate The mild asphyxiation – vice
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Someday the earth will be the moon beaten, abused extinguished and indispensably radiant to some other life “We would sweep the desert with a telescope.” —Violeta Barrios
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I thought: hell in the crevice where darkness is collected and harnessed— People mimic ghosts at once, but it comes out as the mocking of young people
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The moon was the hero deposed and licked, and made to carry correspondence up the long, arcing ladder I watched it rise out of the dark tree, where it was young and could not yet claim humiliation, then appreciate itself, it only meant (it meant only) appearing unadorned but it was—bright old fire
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The shadow on the grass (in the yard) consolidates all the aspects of the self into one black mass the color of the grass shielded from the sun by the ambiguous body pulled tight where the sun is a halo on the back of the original I do not know who I was when I was alive (aka on the ground; this death does not resolve the lack of knowing the impossibility is preserved in the glowing borders (edges). If there is no sun? Shadow breath warms the grass,
— 2015 - 2016