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Thursday, April 13, 2017


I consider the way    I fall   into   metaphor
the word     for example, a way I  stay here
without meaning to— Today    what’s new
the words “mistakenly kills”  is   error also
forced into metaphor          when the body
count rises,   when death is an      accident
of the senses, a sneeze a    tragedy    a shot
into     the wrong side— But        I thought
all war was profit and     as such our media
who art in heaven     responds  in turn— I
am sick   of doing favors       for incidental
men, I consider   my metaphors, the bend
of my body a shape a figure in the grass of
me— I cannot eat dinner  tonight I am too
glamorous   for the momentary  display of
skin— An old man calls me   healthy, looks
down as I   look down—   I don’t throw up
these days but am crippled    by resolution
to not   do so— The ways we        drum up
horror start with  we and         I’m tired of
brightness, the cold   broth on the counter
what has become   of my faith in us in we
in the     what has given        us expressive
urgency— Lately I think of this signage on
Midwestern  yards, a message of tolerance
it says     Hate has no home here!   and this
And this lie   is deep, home   as in home in
as in make oneself at    as in dwelling as in
we have driven  impossible miles  our own
machinations   to believe    hate in this land
is not ours,   our own machinery a    glitch
as we    rip earth from the ground,       say
We’re better than our mastery the mastery
by which  we mistakenly kill to survive us—

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