Saturday, January 22, 2005

Frequently Asked Questions

The Fact is no sister our son can rough up lovely
with suffrage flowering about his ankles like
the truth is—Breathe, blood—hirsute: a mouth full of broken who’s.

This is my final meta-mission, my subcommander.
Uterus, u-boat, pronoun: the overhours of Oblivion
ruffle and aspirate. Love is live, my lissome, and leans out from and against
if-so and says how wrongly la-la-la life is somewhere. On the front page,

the space capsule Genesis slips through the hydraulic
claws of the helicopter and its argot-
cargo of delicate starshit (wherein we might
decode our own abasement) plunges

into the North Specific. We pinball through the sefirot.
I’d make a point of making a paint of that.
I’d color him sail and hope. Rub the ever in good.

Not once has a hand reached up from wet
concrete of the recent past
to give the all-clear sign.

The mind is no place to raise a child.
No face to rise from, bedizened, into measureless camouflage.

That guy, this guy. One of them walks into the middle of what I’m saying with a gun.

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