A square that demonstrably represents Idaho for this instance, has been burned from the outside. Continuing along the vertical lines, you can see the grain and wheat wield suffering irreparable damage. Also, birds dive in and out of the fire to catch insects that try to escape in the fields. In turn, inhabitants shoot the birds for food in a continual cycle of sustenance amidst destruction. The head of the IAEA is nowhere to be found. His office refuses to release statement. This is no place to busk, but some have brought guitars and sing at the centre, ‘O’ and ask that people give what change they can spare for the entertainment provided. In this way, the spirit remains communal.
These gun to the head negotiations are what brought hungry faces to your TV in the 80’s, are what considers shelf space a valuable asset, are what is stirring itself on the red carpet wearing 1,000 letters of apology from google; is the reason for the factory fire and ligament damage happening NOW! LIVE! tune in and black out! I mean, to me, it tastes like a chewed tablet but even MY poetry is haunted by the gold price over a four year span, eventually. And mountains grossing misconduct in a leisurely, abstract fashion bids the practice farewell, away with you! There is the sticky absorbent surface of the matter, virtues on the wrong side of reality happening NOW! LIVE! demobilize alternatively, staring into your car stereo like a radar screen, as though you have been excused from Bach’s canon in the most absurd fashion for failing to live up to 400 year old commitments. The dots just flicker, getting neither closer nor further away like a preventable disease from the centre of gravity. The irrational blowback that never happens while you prep the witness, the fall out and plummet like you mean it addressed in the 34th letter. The future rides the densest elements like a cowboy on a missile released from the death grip of Vesuvius. The archive is staggered by forgotten wars and forgotten syndromes, the syringe drips ________________
*my next poem does not
I am between geography and the black stem, playing back the consequence several times in it’s fetid mayhem, between galaxies. And I push back, interrealled occupancy, this expanse trembles the dust storm. Hands to the realisation, your stare is an anchor and star less clouded by vacancy. A vacant stare does well to dress you, bible black, carrying dead smoke from the vantage. And the houses, murdered by now with known thunder hiding in the breath. That the thunder is known gestures more than to string but equally dishonour, singularly stretched by a family I am writing to convince you, invented plutonium. One texture, longer, has my heart in detail but full of empty heat and tied back to the printing press while all I talk about is the arguable velocity which will make your words drown in history. This smoke is so vile to have my vote rotting in it’s throat and my left hand peeling itself from the mirror. I have not the taste buds for a loud voice lost at sea at this hour and have seen more of North Korea in a postage stamp and less of Russia in an abandoned train carriage. So you think I have traveled well, when in fact not even past our last discussion, not even past these embarrassed, dead millions.
*my next poem takes it’s cue from the Tristan Tzara quote I posted last week.
Non enim erat tunc.
There was no then.
There was no then.
— ST. AUGUSTINE
For me, it’s important not to let a name on a screen govern how you feel about yourself for the next few hours at your parents house
you impress me with what could easily be silence but for the coloration it leaves in your palm. these and other doors. all dressed up and made of embarrassment , well it certainly fits the tooth. fits the clause. fits the way your mother pronounces your name. unfloundered, can i be that, even if there’s no evidence . even if the salt spins. even if it spins away from you. _if you have to dress up and go across the room to get it. busy being invented, busy coming down to the wire, touching it with your teeth, then busy with abduction, busy with trespass, treason, busy with concern. busy opening packages, bursting their contents to the floor, busy picking them up. busy with hands that are lies and shedding at a premium rate their coloration. variations impress me, never meaning to breifly return the blender and spilling your GUTS like a behind-the-scenes expose. theres no atmosphere for this common sense flag to flap about in