What matters once you’ve claimed that way as yours,
and walked that bitter mile through the dust,
and pierced the veil, and mastered your disgust,
is pulling all the corpses from the rift.

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i knew Sitting Bull before sitting pretty
and images of bareback warriors protecting the tribe lulled me to sleep in the thud of the wild mustangs hooves
i have crossed deserts, meadows, mountains, and oceans
to get away from my white (wo)man’s burden

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yellow came and told me
paint a dog, find a corner
bodega, steal me some
of them Swisher Sweets, while
red gave me the finger, called
911, kicked me in the shins

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Instead, we rainbowed  the space― hung sexy lace.
I ordered Gitmo closed and asked for the extra clothes
to patch together a warmer wintery scene.
We clothed some homeless folks in Georgetown,
gave them three squares each and a jail house cell.

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It becomes  dark forever at 6.30
as I'm the only one  to get off at my station,
warm train  taking the light away
to stars. In  the west, Passaic
rustles its winter waters in the leafless world
as I walk the resounding mile

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and why should we not feel the fluster further
sensitize our oppression and fortunes
to understudies of undertakers and why should we not care
when they don't upstage us and why should we not fight in the streets
for the same fucking thing everyone fights in the streets for

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     kryptonite drive     the light will change     steel lines shadows shall
continually respond     so make sure you keep your egg in morose
spin dizzy     $1800 rent check made payable to cockroach 
ambassador conversely     each flea has 2 big beautiful eyes

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“Two scoops,” I tell the vendor, “it’s the best
way to ward off despair”—and generous
he is, loading the cone full and high.

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You say he was a good man. he wouldn’t like
My pulling out my eyelash, eyebrow, arm hair

Now. now, mommy, it’s okay. I know you
Remember me with hair—braids with colored,
​Plastic balls settled at the top of a nest of black—

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a statue is watching people strolling

scattering the birds from his head

thinking of the man who locked him in stone

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And you breathe slow like you don't notice
The man's hands following his wandering eyes
And the stench of their findings on his too-late
Goodnight kiss on your already asleep cheek.

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I will walk on my own, stand on
my own two feet, keep my distance
always. I cannot swallow what
she attempts to serve.  I must
look out for my best interests.

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Dark hairs above her lips are exposed
by  your lens. Behind this photo
looms a large volume of Western art.

A coin bought your admission, your presence,
keeps her eyes closed, keeps her voice silent
as if she were dead.

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Sorry about my uncooperative nature
but I’m just not into accepting snake oil

and being bamboozled and sold
on da boastful and promising pitch.

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Metapoesia by David Matthews requires image support

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The 30 year old cool kids are emptying their children and youth all over the parking lot. Dirty diapers without an owner that once belonged to their kids or maybe themselves, smelling like a hefty child support court story...

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if we shimmer, somehow,
above our ivory clouds;
if we are to them
as silvered fish

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                                     but it appears they take themselves where
taken       their destiny is all that’s behind them on
the road       and that child’s voice   not even a memory
within an architecture of raw air

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(Cy Twombly triptych, an
innocent & pre-
plastique Michael
Jackson concert, a
touched de Chirico).

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Whenever I wake from a bad dream, my murderer gives me homework. He’s there waiting. Not at the edge of the bed, as one might assume, with a hand resting calmly on my back, but sitting alone in the dim light of the kitchen.

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the sun skims across their faces everyday
razing red-hot and cancerous skin

in time all the stones will turn black
and melt away like Icararuswings.

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hips puddled pale on the asphalt
path, where lately space has been
spread a blanket of columbines,
weeds seeded out in puffs hugging
her silence all after, reckoning.

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They came from the four corners of the country
from remote places, walled off, cut off
and secluded from civilization,
practically removed from the map,
people of many clans, customs, and cultures

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is family style, is by the book.
Is none of my bid'ness.
They have a joy-free smoke,
a homemade drink.

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To defend José Lezama Lima is a right
defend him from God and from the hell
of majuscules and luck
stiff-necks and influxes
of the azure

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6. The Protesters: massed in the streets,
shouting, lifting signs high in the air,
all to no avail. It was over—they just
​did not know.

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They were young.
Maybe not the brightest.
But among the most intrepid.
They were not Hitler youth.
Their motto wasn’t “Blood and Honor.”

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Jim Dandy takes his place in the soup queue,
Huck Finn just behind, and they
laryngitis whisper: it ain’t worth being
civilized, advertised, mesmerized,

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They turned the torture zone into a tourist site
the torturers all got jobs showing busloads
of foreign schoolkids where the tor
tures used to take place.

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you can't
make friends
with ghosts
not with
dead soldiers
or with
​old boyfriends

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Curbside beers, meals of tramp stew,
collapse a minister’s graven idol imagery,
diminish metaphor and the morning.
Rancor falls, random as a star.
​I have no sense of the way home.

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I became certain of silence, its
speech more relevant amid my
open hands releasing what was
         learned among irrelevant
                                 histories

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But we remember also the marches
against the wars of horror and shattered bones
who would cry out against Napalm
the burning of villages, not just
one who prophesied in the '60's train
but many friends, many friends

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she adored the aroma of nicotine on ripped fabric and
the appealing white-stains on abandoned evening gowns
these new signs became
her own innovative Rorschach tests

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and I pull a Hart Crane, and leap,
and my body dissolves, just a bit
of brine in the expanse of the Atlantic,
and my memories spread,
oil slick across the surface of the wake,

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At the afternoon concert, the parade and the pyrotechnics
at the arboretum, will the fanfare feel genuine?

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important is how, despite your contempt
-ous gaze at the universe, you won’t take
the logical step of slashing your belly while
a courtier-for-hire ensures the dance of your
head down the steps as it hops down towards
the River Danube, once a long-standing frontier

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"Anyone who wants to fight me all the time"
is more important to me than my wife. But there is no one left to fight
and no one knows me and I know no one well. That's good,
"there is more space between people than I'd ever dared to hope."

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They come from underneath the
bridge; at least that’s what
someone said, and I’ve seen
their cardboard condos and
fresh air laundry alight on
the wind.  I get startled

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after three surgeries to get good margins
after a summer of sleepless nights and worrisome days
i remember i sat across from my wife
in the legendary vegas diner
with a dumb smile on my face

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