You belly to the suitcase and throw off a thousand
inside the first Thanksgiving of our foresight
inside the lackluster target
the insurmountable incremental
Flux me dripping in your full ardor costumed with unravelling; in the curved tender of split slits surfeits straddling across my logos in the frill of disclosure. Wrap me in the quick-sticky up-sifts of your cannot; over the bluster of surface.
the East Germany rife with butterflies sparkled in the night
the Western Germany full of west wood garlics glinted in the evening
the fall of the Berlin Wall was an indulgence
then shooting stars fell down
before he could think to speak the sky began to lighten the lake and the lake answered with lightening blue, undramatic
encircling cedars projected their long green reflections from the periphery in preparation for noon when the lake would glimmer
In a crowd like this, with this many people about, the chances are higher that someone in the throng will have something spiralling out of control in their head. Or they’ll be part of a terrorist cell that’s chosen this exact moment at this precise location to strike.
The triple threat of alcohol, Seconal and Dexedrine on your sheets. In a bowler hat, fishnet suspenders and a skin-tight tuxedo jacket I audition for the role of myself in the documentary of your life. It’s a glitter-and-doom aesthetic.
To which day-care guardians
Had exposed him, killing him
Softly with holiday chemistry.
So this becomes a fentanyl story,
I predict; I will die
Dirt will turn into poisoned dust
And when the planet turns desolate — and I trust that it will — only cold, lifeless rock —
Nobody will remember I was too shy to be an anarchist.
She says, You can’t unring a bell. But I’m a red Cadillac with a black mustache, and she’s a famous blue raincoat, an angel of the morning quoting the Sermon on the Mount. Blessed is the poet of wild horses and broken bicycles, she prays.
I always hated the city, its right angles and flat surfaces. I couldn’t wait to move away. I read The Secret Garden and Anne of Green Gables and eventually Thoreau and Muir and I loved the storybook pictures of the tiny rural colleges I applied to...
Put on your headphones.
Turn on the television.
Bury your nose in a book.
We all do it. We turn our
back on what’s important.
