Wireless
Psychopomps
Meandering
Through the visible
Mist

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I remember you,
free of walls and doors,
locked gates and security guards,
wardens and cell mates,
a "room for visitors",

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Let her house be a bushel of things
growing, fingers reaching, crying
their way from out of the soil
laughing makes way to sky

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digging down seven years
to my triple bypass
the bloody remnants
of that trip under lights

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In time I might forget myself
In course of vivid currents.
My bastard inclination
To wrestle with the ocean.

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I may never know 
what this is
but I bow

and keep the door open

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Summer with a scent of peppermint
Is a cliché
Shedded cherry tears cover the remains of asphalt
under the multitude of lonely feet

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or drops of blood, or hair, or parachutes,
or acidheads experimenting with flight
(misled believers in their superpowers),
or jacket, hat, and backpack of a child
​returning home an hour late from school.

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where the pins weren't
sharper than the air
stopped by pin pricks
​hidden in the remote control

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Open your window,
throw your ennui out,
which consumes itself
through the depths of your house

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You are a tree....You carry notions of hope in your wide open arms
You are also the dancing breeze on the still waters of a mountain lake, and the deep blue surging waves of an ocean. You wait for miracles to unfold around you.

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last night I saw you plunge from the top of the cliff into the ocean. you were wearing your blond wig, when you emerged from the water not a hair was out of place.

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after supper he’d lift it out, slide it slowly
from its scabbard, jab it and show me
how the Germans screwed it sideways
​to yank out your intestines—like a Canuck

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Other people have better heroes, heroes
That break down less often, that come with a warranty.
But this is my hero, and I’ve gotten used to him.

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Lucy, how could you know, in your tender immediacy, that your great-great-grand-daughter of the future would be a seven-foot-tall dragon with functionless wings?

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After the mob murdered the man for eating
a cow, it was found to be meat
from a goat. Why can I not
stop thinking about it—
the stringy flesh inside his gut,

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he is stripped down to the essentials:
a man and his facts, a meteor
shattering into little stars

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I did not love you, not
in the way we are taught to think
of love, but

you held me, listened to me, made me
say what I needed.

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So, now we must negotiate all the
god-forsaken years spent indentured
to one god or another millennia
after millennia like strata embedded
​into our primordial DNA.

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I never perfected the art of taking
of claiming the merely found as mine
never felt the extensive satisfaction
of keeping all my finds

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Vehement shakes and frowns,
points to his pad and pencil.
“Too sad” he writes . . . (to remember,
to be no longer able to play)

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I remember Rene Otto Castillo. Because the lines and their sizes
are all there though we have made several attempts to erase
with all our might. A smell from the pot on a hearth is out there
from the window and everybody in the street breathes the beetroot
​soup. It is launch. It is ethereal nose everybody wears all this noontide.

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If only one could play them without the “tits and feathers.”
​A profound unmitigated loneliness is the only truth of life.

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The other day a woman was pulled from the canal unconscious and not breathing. That’s when I realized I should have done something sooner – hanged myself from a ceiling hook or bitten down on the muzzle of a gun.

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