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binocular necrosisTo Luke Buckham's previous piece     be still & travel with a new prayerTo Luke Buckham's next piece

I'll tell you what it is, honey...

the hearts in the plywood walls are silenced
the head walks through a tan wall of nipples
the dog gets fat & it's owner becomes solemn
starves himself & naps under a table of glass
i'm eating cake blacker than hot tar
the blades of the fan have stopped 
& they may not be plugged in next year
and the orange electrical cords nurse 
at the cold open palm
of the satellite
the cat has hypothermia and i cry
the dog smiles raggedly and i smile 
my deodorant melts on the creaking heater
trying hard to equal some ancient spice
i don't have time to referee the fight 
between the jumping sun & my slouched reading lamp 
i don't ever want to put on my shoes again
or stop staring at my wonderful hands
i have flashbacks of wrestling with stuffed animals
the numbers of the calendar change languages
i have dragonfly eyes when my head hits the pillow too hard
i've been a man for about two days now
there i am pouring pure sugar into the toilet bowl
there i am yelling at the unblinking digital clock with a megaphone
or maybe i didn't leave my chair yet
i can tell that the tissue i just blew my nose into isn't a trumpet
and i want to go to sleep in the fireplace.
my luck has yet to drive a car
my love has yet to smoke a cigarette
my life has yet to make a fist.

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