Teasing
keys of post pleasure, roaming
rooms of dirt leisure, flagging
mounds of hard pasture, failing
(to mention something
to the tune of ditch.)
Rasping
granules,
spit.
I was in my mask gasp alpha and gamma,
what have you:
particles,
daggers,
belly eaters.
They swear to sink it.
They ask you to seal it.
You make a general call.
You sit still.
Older men
stink when they
sweat. Immediately:
what they ate last night; their detergent.
They sink,
gain weight,
sit down
slow.
We become bigger not bloated,
simply more sure
of ourselves.
A charade.
I pretend.
A flight in glue:
arms, lungs;
extend, expand.
The big
attempted,
elbows like pulleys
attached to jello
collapse.
We sign the line--
all hundreds
of thousands,
the same name.
--cannot help
turn the round thing seared
to the rough thing shoved
to that box thing aimed
at turning a wide, heavy, long
thing
into
schools of fish
swiftly
flee wakes
meaning,
greening
effervescent toil.
Or,
I fed my fish too much.
They bloat like float
that way.
He said to do it
I brought the motor
generator
on line.
You want it to come on,
hum all pretty
churn out evens not odds
but I
dropped
a line,
not a wrench
and they let us go
anyway.
One ran into a wall it didn't see.
There are no windows. Signs.
Just points like periods.
Colons.
American lines,
meanders,
refuse to curve.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
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