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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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