‘Who you votin’ for, Ray?’
The constant refrain makes his glasses slip
however often he pushes them up his inherited nose.
‘Ain’t votin’ for no damn body.’

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It was
a simulated
training exercise
set up
just like
a hospital
​in Afghanistan

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You have 3 minutes.
You have to pick
3 minutes 3 minutes 3 minutes
to live over and over until they wake you—

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Occasionally when discussing
great American novels, the walls
shook. Ravines were blasted
​for more rocks to crush into powder.

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                         The great hall is ornate,
unpeopled, terribly hushed. 
Hand holds an unshelved  book that
won’t open.  One after
another, books that won’t open.

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Even after death.
I wear the t-shirt around the house.

The heathens sing.
About my unbuttoned blouse.

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His Purple Haze became my breath, my flesh.
Star Spangled Banner sizzled —
igniting the world with flames
from his guitar. Jimi flipped the Strat
over, reversed the strings—

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O sand O silk O galactic black wild—she dances naked, breathless, on the web-spread surfaces of Zodiacal light. 
O exposed bruises, O love doubled into madness, madness into self murder 
flood of sunlight bouncing off dust particles, ions in the coronal plasma, forbidden spectral emission lines—

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I have buried men like gods
dressed in the rags of the state,
my fiery way
in the throat of things to come,
beautiful women robbed
​of beauty and sense,

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To speak in parable, the
most vintage smoking
paraphrenalia is super light
& packable because it lets
you leave the poles behind.

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When we think back on it, we’ll call it “the end times”
and remember the strongmen tying knots in their thick ropes
just before they used them for saving those in the crevasses.

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Woodpecker's red head
inquiries of poplar tree, what
​be this sad struggle.

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He couldn’t say that he
Couldn’t say that he couldn’t
Wish for a kinder father.
What could he say, faced
With those sorts of choices?

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Swilled on Labor Day at Lake Havasu
With body bags more plentiful than
boats
Drifting from motel to motel

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human chrome, cooing
and cooling 
on the New York
thru way

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To love her I stuff
hearts inside my eyes—cartoons but pumping 
real blood too—real and red 
                                                  as a child in summer

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Things don’t manifest
based on your intention
or your vibration
or when you’re ready for them
​or at the right time.

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It is true what the priest discovered.  I have heard others tell of it. The bones of Jews have been ground into the road to the green cemetery tended for the SS graves.

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Some people look away from the blood.
Some people can't stop looking into it.
Some people bleed inside their brain.
Some people swim away on the blood of life
until they turn into something new.

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The ambassador said the embassy would not turn over their guest
​since American prisons are the darling of the tiers monde.

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no reason left to act on logic alone. no charges of aiding & abetting
the madness. revolution of unconditional love will bear all responsibility.
complete with endless summer soundtrack. no advertising budget will
​be needed when supernatural is added into the equation.

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then there is nothing to be detached from,
nothing to be attached to but a serial
infinity of the same choice: to be, happy
or not, enlightened, else, the resulting
happiness-no-happiness,

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Faces pause for fluttering flag: Anthem rises.
Hands over hearts we hymn that old war song.

Then a player drops a knee: Thread-jacks the script-
ed playbook scene, hacks the broadcast dream.

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Our friend Jeffrey has traveled to many cities: Cucamonga. Bentonville. Portsmouth. Providence. In each city he has gotten on his knees. He has prayed to the local god or goddess. In Newark he spoke to Sarah Vaughn in a cocktail lounge and to Allen Ginsberg floating high above the Jewish cemetery next to the traffic jam. Getting the okay from Allen and Sarah, he renamed the airport so we can fly into Allen Ginsberg. Then he flew into Louis Armstrong and learned how to second line.

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                a creed
                in lurch mode 

                             lumping

          any lecher willing to come
          in for a pass

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Each day older, a smolder in this spent body,
I wonder at my anger, this wish to stab somebody.

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mercurial license of body a
float inside the door your
outer ear fainter than a dis
tant boat clouded in as
h fingered lid chews

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A prison, a handful of sparrows flying while I drink a
cup of coffee at the cafe.
Who has forgotten?  Who has spoken to a youth who
will save a life?

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where is the marriage muzzle when you need it most?
coast to coast nihilist in search of midnight missives
gypsy rings carved out of tree bark, don’t be sorry
for never being what your mother wanted, the ospreys
are here now, the hard part is over, thrown bored-eyed

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Held dear for one,
horsefeathers for another.
Both, valid and worthy.
Each as credible as the other.

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I can dream being into another body, yes, but not this
you. the screen light, once more, a fission of text.

a continuance. I mean to say something to you, as you are
not dead, and I am in a body that I know knows

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Going for glory ain’t as easy
as it used to be, back when
Evel Kneivel broke his bones
for you, thrilling your hides
with goosepimples of death

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She burned corsets, stockings and tasty fetish gear as she waited for her climaxes. Just passing time. Just passing time. They misunderstood her experiments for an elastic insanity.

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From Clinton Community Garden
to South Street—I put up
revolutionary green propaganda:
SAVE THE GARDENS on fences.
Press flesh, spreading the word.

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the people arguing
and the people asleep on benches
and some saw it coming
and thought they could fix things or hide
maybe escape

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Fuck the rich. They are the assholes of power.
An asshole is an asshole and not a sword.
Their tight grip on our destiny is dissolving.

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