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Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Rhythm Thirteen

 Never put value in a belief. All I do is repeat.
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I’m astonished by every mouth I’ve had. An orange
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pushed down my throat. This afternoon I left
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the office to run in line. My discipline is straight.
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A crystal falls through me. Fiber drips down my chin
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as I assess the world smashed into me. I ran 
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in a line to a window. Every object on its side
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looks like a beached whale. I think the problem
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with scene is my death can’t fit inside it. I’m hurt
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by narrative, the promise of humans to be their verbs.
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The times I’ve been intellectual, my lips were wet.
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I pantomime in the pretty gloaming of my youth
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and push myself through a disc so I don’t have to look
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anyone in the eye. I need more space. I repeat.
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I lay down in the road as a girl because I wanted
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someone to stop me like no one stopped him.
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Because the car never came, they called me 
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an attention whore. I’m relearning inventory
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to repeat myself better. Tonight, Paul said the word 
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ichor in their poem. I can still feel the god blood
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melting through the snow. My landscape flattens
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to one without snow, without rain, without land.
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I draw the word ichor in the steamy mirror. It drips.
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I splash the glass with bleach. It drips.
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