Smoke
rings I saw
Entered
the real world
As
measured feet
Squeezed
through a sausage casing
A
kind of skin like a sentence
No
longer simply digested
But what if
The
words I speak
Are
transparent glass trumpets?
What
if a flock of plastic flowers
Trumpets
to a flock of sacred birds
In
complete darkness
Of
some room close by?
There ought to be
A
recurring figure of speech
To
explain
As
though someone
A
thing or a statement
Half
in the bag
Nowhere Close to
Asylum
A box contains
nothing is writing
A lover’s lie is remembered
—Tan Lin, Blipsoak01
as some pieces are dark bosses
holding skin to bone
a daisy of mien or something sans neon
arrives on a cigarette hewn out of
granite
but never are you more penetrable in the
margins
of oratorio—albeit of gauges’ strident
white vicinities
late into evening song—than when
something brown
& nomadic eclipses a skylight—
for what makes a summer love resonate
with psychotic encumbrances
is a sneezing fit then laughter?
apples out of context
the town is a cart load
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