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this miserable little
drama
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for that beautiful thing
that we can kill
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*James Brown
A vapor trail
across the morning paper.
(you know what I'm doing- you see right through me.)
The organ of knowing.
A mental interrogation.
Himmler's dog.
A scratchy shirt.
A screech in the wilderness.
Your head under water.
Eternal Bliss.
It looks as if I'd
been there
and seen all the names
printed on your wall
and taken some outward treasure
from your hand (you gave it willingly)
And all those names are names
of them you left wanting,
perfectly matching your
dark-stained vision.
No explanation is useful for how the sides
turn themselves inside out
like binary stars at the singularity
how to go on, now.
the flying birds and tumbling trees tremble at
the distant rumbling from the sky. Both touch it,
but neither is of it, really.