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Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Everyone tells me there's no work on this road, I make bad choices okay fine but I swing from a godswell and take a punch like a philomel

Everyone tells me there's no work on this road, I make bad choices okay fine but I swing from a godswell and take a punch like a philomel

The nervous white hospital wants my sex / sext / the sexton keep
that I place in the bin and say no more. That I shame for my failures
as beads I read them off full of grace I jerk them off the fine jet string that strung
from cleft to / trouble. Trouble me. I've been down in the sand with the women with sticks / they can
draw their saywaves and silence, they can write the names of each roadside fleabag
attackers, they're all so boring, just lazing there waiting for a power surge, waiting
until a light goes on above the tits below the eyes in the stupid grottoes men
keep piling up against the gutter. Does the sea have a gutter you want to know / it
yes guttering against your thigh same as it does continent same as it does the future pearl this second
a glass shattering against the deck its shards go, its bridal spray of white cutting 
ships / men, palaces, bars, funeral tops, literature bottoms everything seems
unattainable today, but the voice on the line, bull-faced voice or voice that broke out of husbandry or

or

your voice uses salt to conduct itself through copper wire turns the wire gold the gold dust / woman
collects fibers from your voice repurposes it for sonic paintings loud thrashes of paint it roils
and smells like verbena and bonebrute. Men do it to, and those beyond the binary
the binary exchange of grosgrain for fuckface, it's so boring we're laughing again / hard
and mercy feelings come up on me. I have so many friends I never write songs about / it's okay
to remember you love some, it's okay to go soft places in your hard 
who's that on the road, now? A philomel comes typing up a storm she's made
of talking made of this dishonest belief every day / might divest / pain / she has
six braids in her fist she cut them from beasts of the field and soldiers and sad moms I point
her out to my daughter, each of us is one, I point to her lit-afire sandals and the
weeping sash she tows. It's okay to be in love, I tell my daughter. It's okay, it doesn't 
have to last long

or

or I'm so sorry I'm not singing your name, screaming, singeing, freaking out your name 
on a rooftop clifftop overlooking the deadeye of new moon sea, or it's full moon courting 
Jupiter the failed sun won't go back home to father won't hide his face looks side eyes but sweet
enough at my hide asks every question real slow like we're not going anywhere that's not
a fast road, he says, what'd you do with your bullfriend, where'd you send your / 
centaurs and stags leap over the hedge of a rich man's house I can see it from 
the tidal pool or when I'm orbit-slung from even my bed in the desert /  I try to 
fix up all this garbage I'm not the first poet, but maybe I'm the first one to live so stupid every
day pain fluxes a material through the morning sky and stalls by evening stall
with me awhile, I'm your beddown I'm your hay and brushes I'm a minor classical 
figure and also a / major force shifts the atmosphere, visible as an H-bomb visible
as a reflection, that is: somewhere there is evidence the reflection traverses
the room / maybe I'm so lovely today the reflection swamps you on its course we're 
a new thing, they'll give us a bull's name, they'll call me derivative, or maybe I'm so lovely
I can't get caught by glass tubes or bad hands. I fill 24 vials in my own hand / I fill
with you your hand your hard / stretch of luck that runs the salt road  everyone / must travel
doesn't get you off / or on the ferry / or on the ship / or on the island / or on the rocks

or

I fell short of land this day and struck your name in water what / was
more the water took gold flume of pleasure says don't cry, trash, you're home, girl 

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