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the likelihood of Losing sleep
She has become one remarkable appendage.
Among the slop of barstools we were introduced;
had her pulse, perhaps, become any sadder
I'd have thought her a reptile.
"But this is about mammals,"
slunk from me, suppressed
by the stature of my sweating tumbler;
and I boiled to beat my extinction out the door,
then very swaggered, watched a swallowtail
swirl on the landing of an arid alleyway
to tatter its wings, so pasted
to a piece of warm gum.
"A correct assessment, butterfly."
"But this is about mammals."
Though I wish, I am not exempt from interaction.
I've been writing about her for months but
my nerves are that shape of a beaten cur.
So I bought one to keep me company,
to keep me remembered at night and
to dig holes for staying cool in this weather.
I put it on a leash and named it nothing.
The whimpering has become comfort,
and I feel much more pleasant about
never confronting her to comment on
just how the rafts of her skin
can bring me rapture;
Tractatusperhaps it's illogical
the way i count your eyelashes
when you sleep
i had gotten so high one night
that i swore i climbed them
like ladders leading towards
the place where you held thoughts
that you kept secreted away
i saw the first moment you knew
that i would break your heart
and it was okay that my name
echoed in your head when i mis-stepped
and caused a grimace and then a smile
were you an infant it would have been
attributed to some sort of gas
i found out that you loved the way
i could not commit to a thing
Lay me, seated, at a table-faction of smiling dead: cadavers raising their forks and scalpels to their chests, gladly dining on themselves. Turn my head to that Roman rot; to the unknowing hairs of their long, unattached noses, strands overtaking the upturns of bottom lips; to the fingernails that question their place in the ranks of graves, and cusp the hollow of wine glasses like they do their own long-dissolved souls; and turn my head away from youespecially you, e sempre.
Yesterday I discovered the virility of your hands
(and not my own)
No, each of mine shakes a dinner guests
and yields, yields, yields
each timid finger an exploding woman,
I the el
in Lieu of a Lie
Our sky squats
hostile and sad;
what a wail of rain
and wind when
a hardwood throws
several hickory nuts
the runt squirrel
will be shoved
from the nest
and be reared
by the shaking
hands of man
man will soon
surely as his wife
surely as she
loves cold men
but not so much
does she love
Mirrors hanging on walls by moth-bitten string fall
and break / into / each other. It's warm and soft inside
this softened room's womb, rhythmic almost, but - beats
of skull-drumming cobbed webs pounding innerlock channels
in walled flu-id : down, out, along, and around the
rims clang cacophonodemons like back in tenth grade
when: bright outs and graphite clouds outline an idol
clamoring its teeth round clean youth.
Ten years look back to see big men in small houses
that stink of bleach and formaldehyde baking
in figure-hate-lungs seated in automaticate dead beds
reclined on backed-up models. This room
was thick with good wills. Free furnatures and TVs
cast broad static across shadows leaking
out wood floors—board all passes in the wall.
This day looks back to see small men
in big houses that reek of lost boys
and potential. Leaden bars blow off his neck: concentric ego holes.
Good books on bad shelves knock sense
into laid back stones m
I have been a bloodless fish tossed about
with wild blank eyes -- whiter than the foam that smashed me
into rocks that flaked my scales and sent them scattering
gold vermillion flashing at the knees of stinking fishermen
that bent to taste me,
one hand in the folds of their trousers where they started to stiffen
and the edges of their boots all caked with guts.
With salt crust forming in the corners of their lips they turned
to face each other, to shake hands or
compare rod size -- I made this community!
A limp queen rotting into water where I lay with seagull shit and algae scum
that floated and coated the mouths of babes and still I heard
carried in the wind to sluice my innards from cliff faces
and flavour all the oceans with part of me.
I have been a wailing cadaver, slinging hooks to ships
and several first mates drunk recalled a mermaid, though they can't
stand the stink of the sediment under their fingernails at night.
With the lack of light and of cou
The Garden of Ethelart deco fruit punch spouts,
The Garden of Ethel.
but if i keep my mouth open,
will the sun rays damage
my sunbathing throat gums and ridges?
Why do the palm trees slouch?
Why can i see the creases and wrinkles between the obvious
puzzle pieces that construct this constant blue sky?
God: Ethel was fond of her slender ember sticks and she passed by
way of emphysema. This world is the fallen eyelash of Ethel.
A woman's flawed life and the sky cracks mark no sympathy.
while loving her, I was alone
When she implored of me
what should go
on the table for dinner
Where has the clemency
we shared gone; what has become
of our daughter: look at her
in halves; what has become
of our eroding automobiles,
our wireless bills and
what has become of our
inability to interact well
with each other has
become a carnage of
whose day it is to do
laundry or whether
we should have fed
the cat or
the dog first.
It has gone to Golgotha.
It has gone to headstone
and you raise your voice
much too often.
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
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