1,078 Readings

to fearful brothers

in circles, in spokes, in shifts—
landscapes to eyes of fearful
brothers in oversized jerseys
in teeth of machines and
smiles of slatted mill houses
all tasted salt mines between
digits with the best being between
keys. in wheels with those
who would invest like dogs
where, uh, meet landscape,
where, uh, baste the landscape
with this stage of cancer.
in handlebars one kind of
control beats, demands free
refills. people are disgusting
but at least they’re nice, and
that’s more than, uh, can say
about, uh, and, uh, wrought-iron
gate of a harem. broken
window of a dress of a
kaleidoscope of blisters.

foggy day harbors with
memory loss imminent, with
repulsive features and
featurelessness. you sons
of bitches and your fear.

in that blank machine that
we call a body. in unspotted
lifting of much iron, in
Nike commercials where we find
real eyes, real sweat, where we
embed our problems. oh, uh, fog girl
made of several days, oh partially eaten
“unconscious.” no, hand me downs
for the truck pull. oh, pull your hair
into a bun, oh, drive me to
McDonald’s, oh, be strange some more.
and I cannot draw the world on fire,
cannot bring all of this impossible
correspondence and postage paid—
to you or to current resident.

and among all things I will sleep and I will dig.
I will fit the landscape.

but first, cut holes and
then find windows. in between keys,
screams and the “About” page and
the “Contact Us” page, and
the progress bar in your
coughing, in the raspy way you say

but this life is pedal powered
it is a falling, it is wingless.
it is in the crotch that we can prove
this falling, that we apprehend breath.
in these brothers all I see is fog
and fear of murder. there is
going, a going, a through, but how.
there is dialing for heat, but imperfect.
the movement that rain makes is
a day and then a day and then
a day. the kind of landscape I need
is a gray landscape more
perfect than this one, something
with more “yous” and less thin

I need too many McDonald’s
inside of you. huh, this head bends. then,
my gravity, what gravity, what
dumb voice, what imperfect ownership.

the cancer will balloon, will bridge,
will combine us.
will teach these fingers what is
skinned and what is “skinned.”
what cold spin cycles do not,
do not, ever.
what do you hide in those
cheeks? what slant
are you going for?
political affiliation? housing crisis?
bridging crisis? in that case, are
you— which aisle are you in?
flight number? hospice?
I am at the bank, trying to
trade music for touch, acting fierce.
your hair. what, no. no, nothing.
what cities, no. the brothers,
a fearful height. they cross hatch
eternity for so many McDonald’s.

how can I have been brought up in
such an age full of time? the frozen
ground is caught again, finger slammed
in the drawer. is this success?
a row of seats? a zipper? a spine?
the hell of it all, the hell of such thought.
Posted 01/10/10
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