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Sunday, April 2, 2017


Has the flotsam been jetsamed?
Drones drag me out the bedroom window
To deliver
Brooklyn's Finest
My great grandmother named herself Fannette
How I empty sentences
Into my childhood
To recover the poem
From where it sleeps
Like a dragon with a prehensile monkeytail
Curled around the infamous tree
With its gold tipped leaves
And leaden branches
On which cures in the sun
The Golden Fleece.
Knights, you have licorice hair
You have bright shoulders
I want to touch you when you want to be touched
Love poems should not make sense,
At least traditionally,
Love does not make sense, traditionally, except as
Bird bore down on egg
The nocturnes of anger
I am delicious only not particularly edible
One word wave has been taught
Homophone I slur a perfect perennial
I could stay in the middle of this middle forever
Never seeing myself on the night cameras
Being occasionally though in the fields
I laid down and already there were stories
About the times I laid down and
Got up again
In the darkness
Anything can be what you see

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