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everything at once
love tripped,
i am hanging a tree from a noose
it's roots dangle in the air
i am unable to accept the daily realities
that i did not create
not just housing projects liquor stores old books
but fire water air 
and then the streets with wagging tonsils at the end
instead of traffic lights pushed back by high tide
here is the plank that floated through all the oceans
i have nailed it into my bookshelf
you can tell, it's the brine-stained board 
it's the one that tries to eat it's books
the one with seaweed in it's wake behind the wall
the wood grains that don't stop
the fever of morning crossed by nothing tangible
the wood grains that flow into everything
the figures in the kitchen developing tiger-skin
their faces the aftermath of an earthquake 
that they only witnessed on the evening news
i used to run to solitude 
like a drawer emptied of silverware
now i force my eyes into the city every day
now i am afraid to leave my toolbox of a bed
our genitals our hands in rectangular compartments 
with my trembling mouth in the paved and re-paved air
the last lover is dead within everything 
all the drawers in the kitchen emptied again and filled with concrete
we eat with our hands; the cabinets stare.
will the new one be in my sheets when i come back?
but she is not wrapping herself
she is not overtaken by an overgrowth of her own red hair
there is nothing here that doesn't sneeze and shudder on it's feet
there are no walls without jagged holes
piercing the colored paint into infinities of plaster sucking in it's cheeks
someone else's misdirected anger leaving holes that are eye-shaped,
the shelves falling, the sea is not close enough to be seen through the gashes
left by a minor earthquake
left by a morning of lovemaking that was truncated by a letter 
that flew into me like a bald eagle over a useless cemetery
the stones reflecting the beak preying on death
the strong little brain of that bird
scorching our windshield
as my baby and i drive closer 
to waterfalls that come out of the traffic lights
to tons of grey-white water that come out of a seam 
in the air that sacrificed itself for the tar
splattering ecstatic gallons on the highway lined with nauseating shop! s,
with eyelids trampled in the dirt like thrown-away rubbers
barstools spinning with ghosts that tell dull stories
the jukebox always playing the same song
and then my bedrooms
finally cracked by fire that crawls out the arrowhead-edge of her panties
that is not contained by the drive home or the cliff-edge that is the foot-end of my mattress
the pillows stacked against the wall 
like stones at the mouth of a toppling mining tunnel
afraid that she will fade into a sunbeam through the defunct antique keyhole
afraid that she will paint my bed brown-red and leave.
but she is an uncashed check that will be blank again
i do not know what this steam means
a prophecy in sweat, in glass
a grain of rice left out of the pan
in the kitchen where she cooks again
a scentless meal
until i come out of the wall
with all the years of the wood in my face
the water-pipes surge and we smile 
in the lessened waterfall.

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