a white van sits in a driveway, the silhouette
of a man's head rushes back & forth like rain
that suddenly begins without a resource,
but today there is embroidered sunlight,
seems brighter, nearly infuriating, animated,--
an unbounded eruption of Damascus.
I could be a volcanologist when I boot up
my computer, or like when G.A. cupped
my head in her hands, pausing at first,
then forcing herself to continue.
April rain, shifted, shaved my face as if to
trace my flesh as if taboo could fit inside
a handbag. My body was created for
holding tightly. This was years ago before
the U.S. sported a dictator; this was before
Seance Specialists were writing speeches
to faux intellectuals for the pleasure of
ringing alarm-bells. A terrorist bites into
a candy-cane, everyone bites their tongues,
their nails. Polydimensionally. I am asking
myself if I could duplicate personal expression
by staining underwear for Art's sake.
Somewhere in a hotel two lovers are sitting
so close together in the lobby that their thighs
are overlapping. I think of this because
an episode of fantastical & realistic memory
is born like a buffalo race that is held in Florence.
The balsamic vinegar of my mind is boiling
like a valedictorian's ego. I dislike negative people.
They are like anthropomorphisms; their mouths
like woodsnakes, their words with deficiencies,
spindles of round-end shingles that look to
twist out spinal-cords. Satire has arrived.
I go to sleep like a Renaissance painting,
the character behind the oils. I miss being
loved. I open my heart like a proverb
& grip the safety gear on the rails
of Answer's undressing.
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