in the blade-mirror of god’s dagger
​a cul-de-sac makes itself visible

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as the cloud that seemed out of focus separates into a couple
thousand  gulls hiding their yellow beaks under a wing,
constantly spiraling without a visual center,
​knowing waters not  a mirror

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What kind
of tree is that?
What kind of tree
was that?

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How she decants herself, abandoning the priests’ pressing: the whirl of soft yellow petals opening leaves me breathless, form refusing limit.  I clip the spent blossoms with shears, collecting their orange hips in an enameled bowl. All the stories are old, syllabaries of lauds told.

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I am honestly more interested in the vivid life of the
village than in the erotic sculpture – at a certain
point however, in a hotel room, my hair catches fire.

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Invent and invent to make ourselves
guffaw, then we concocted a new
kind of government, a grief project,

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Stevedore smarts
as exodoi tar
as sufficed ocean
named Eu(-)
gratis wolf fugue tacit poem, one
glebe rep udder burden won, Eros

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I was picturing the perfect hammock as an antidote to the mercurial endowment of the speaker’s eyes that skittered toward targets of greed. I saw firm feeling held between strong trees.

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After they’d had at the indigenous,
they set upon the endogenous.
They offered never-before-seen chemistry
with a will unbridled by consequences.

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The world was wild, wicked, vile
And though complicit was he
In this cavalcade of carnage
He slumbered soundly on
Free of any guilt.

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Diego trudged over and stood still below
the boy, now the king of that hill.
Diego began to make faces for the boy.
And the boy became giddy, so much lighter.
Even forgetful, perhaps.

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ready to entertain kidneys and liver, 
that’s 
our girl. some days 
she goes by Sunny.

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When people give poetry a bad name :
disjointed words from actions inane,
when people give poetry a bad name!

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sam wanted to know why i’d bitten
the hands off of all of my action figures
so that they couldn’t hold lightsabers and guns

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when you realize the air
you’ve been breathing for decades
doesn't smell right

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Tomorrow Pasternak dies
in Peredelkino, where on his grave
we spent our youth
reciting   "August,"
surrounded by quiet men in dark suits ––
​they almost liked the lines.

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if not for those children
playing war games
tearing off tentacles and petals
rehearsing explosions
​memorizing marches

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Channel Five flashes footage of my house
The newscaster’s tone not quite as condemning
as the word NIMBYs he keeps repeating
Referring to us who object to the bill
that wrote a half-way house for recovering drug addicts

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I shuffle the deck
and the world lays flat.
The bluer the sky the darker
astronomy becomes.

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a big black savage dog
is chained to the axle
of a rusty Ford
in the overgrown front lawn
of a dilapidated house

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O solemn vow
beyond the pulpit
            of a slow lifetime
of rows and rows and blows

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You need to know; you cannot condescend.
Reciprocity delineates
the limits you can test. Remove the mask.
Make yourself what love obliterates.

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Recall with startling clarity,
the hue of a private tattoo.
I almost spelled your name again,
fingers tracing foreign flesh.

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May you know your neighbors’ names. May those names cause
more pleasure than frustration. May they applaud
the life you choose to build—your triumphs and flaws—
your loyalty and trysts—your science and your gods.

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with her prowed breasts
with her hands down, like an irish dancer
she scurried slowly across

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Evil's another story, a story
whose orphan narrator is misery,
married to pain, son of suffering,
sibling of spleen. I have seen evil.
You have too, so you know there's
only one way to get rid of it.

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Hummingbirds emanate from a mirage's radiant haze now.
Tornadoes vanish on the glowing horizon comets graze now.

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one time he said men will use
kite strings to decapitate other men
                          riding motorcycles

no, you’re fucking with me         but it is
possible invisible strings can slice clean

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a beautiful woman among the throngs
removed her dress and began to
march naked, cutting through the
thick crowd on the sidewalk like
a rapier, everyone moving aside

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The messenger burned out and crashed.
Once a quick-silver bullet
Screaming into the sky,
“Listen to me! I have so much to tell you!”

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Stop that crap! We built this country
And made it what it is, great again,
After losing the topnotch place
With our kindness and indulgence;
It is our country now, and our home!

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Before he died a few years ago
I touched Moses' dying skin
almost empty
of its fleshy weight

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or "aryan", or "norwegian". the ideal
of blond hair, blue eyes as wrapper
for a superior type of person
you know, the stable genius sort

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I fake solemnity and self-negation, finish my meal.
Mosquito swarm about my face, sweat beads on
my brow. Emptiness was more fun to write about
before navigating the corridors of cancer wards, orderlies

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In my death I meander through mirrors that reflect the void of my face. My eyes dissolve into black holes that contain multitudes of nothing.

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Admit the truth
open the window
goodbye to houses and hello to farms
this is the way things are
out in the world

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Upon the scrotum's fell evacuation
the musculature normally declines--
or so the common wisdom of our time
lets one (that would be me) anticipate.
But here I feel a pair of muscles thrive
on my castrated travel-partner's sides:

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They call it stormy Monday,
Thursday’s just as bad
Siri’s not responding
​My GPS’s lead me to Riyadh

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You were very small at the time I admired you,
and from each glimpse across the water
​you seem only to have shrank away.

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