The Voltage of
My Dying
The
telephone is a sound a skeptic makes of a friend
&
so I enter a tavern full of evocative surprises
A
room volcanic trembling polka dot unsustainable
&
what reasons we had we now withdraw
For
the world is a cube attached to an email
&
life is stranger & colder than autumn without you, Jean Genet
&
poetry a nomadic number frozen deleted sanitized disambiguated
Or
one is a boisterous design & kleptomania is law
Something is either blue or it is
Michael Palmer obviously
But who is that walking like a slain
lion
Past the deer with no feet converging on
a landscape devolving?
One loop of afternoon shadows & we sit
here like swimmers
Discussing a body of work like a small
farm—
Equatorial blunt magically-spawned
highly-inflammable
& the
Suitcase Was Still Unbelieving
Multiple
labyrinths of quincunxes are counted
&
I am hungry for real sky this time
This
time around I’m not interrogative I’m a single animal soul
I
am extinguished humanely by translucent experimental genius
&
because a phone book & a chestnut have a hair of the dog in them
&
dirty laundry in the hall sits in a heap of sad yellow shirts
I
climb the electric darkness of my words inch by zoo animal inch
&
heavy clouds in the window resemble a sentence/someone’s fluffy white salad
&
failing the pump working, this makeshift tourniquet should do us
It
is the wash of a lamp hitting us secretly ray after ray
A
brief anatomical realism we respond to like blue fire in our pjs
&
like Obstructionist wattle leering at us in the cone-light of a street lamp
A
yellow pigeon dies in the rectangle snow of a tongue-tied TV
&
history & a red toothbrush for a girl, etc
&
the last syllable is just mayo & raw chopped celery
&
someone writing ad nauseam—Is this where?
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