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Sunday, April 1, 2018

Nightbooks

On quiet mornings the sun shines vitamins on the land for no reason during your tremendous pain. When the day passes the poems are over and that silence
has even less to say.

The mistakes of my torso retain their mystery longer than the mistakes of my thumb.
If you have never felt a pain can you describe it? Is the unicorn on the tapestry
still molting? Questions in poems are cramps.

I took the quiz where your answers summarize a thousand astrologies you are similar to others like you only somewhat but it’s night now by which I mean day elsewhere and here again only soonish.

Having placed so much hope in the gray drain that something inevitably follows nothing
remorselessly or without some sort of milk the bird deaths I explicated for the kids seemed preposterous and glad. 

My mistake was more than a medium, I mean, didn’t it have to be? The more difficult people are, the more they must be loved. What are some other languages you know how to say thank you in?

My language kidneys and my atrocity kidneys should have a conversation. Poison has to go somewhere, right? Outer space is only big relative to something bigger. 

I never want to read all my books more desperately than when I can’t find the lost one. Once a day you ask about the order. Is this sheer chaos or am I stupid? Stupid, or at least as stupid as my body allows me to be?

A fuzzy moth flies through the bookstore. What sort of poems will it see today? I can’t crush it because I choose not to. Someday I may look back on all my imperatives like botched linguistics.

I carried a headphone cable in my pocket all day and when I got it out to listen, I found it hopelessly tangled, like my body at the beginning of time. I want to smell like lava, my son says after the shower. In your dream I was already someone else. 

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