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The crops grow toward her, 165 degrees. She is the sun, she’s the bitch the water jugs two heavy on her chest her shoulders creak cows are in moo between her footsteps. The crops don’t mind suffering for her goddess built to suffer to sweep the land clean of its sand sometimes I get tired she admits this but how does a goddess of the sun unsweep the land—warped glass limbs animal hairs stuck in the crevices of husband-gloves they take them off so slowly how she wants to touch the sun just under so lightly her fingers burn the land and soon all these dicks will go up in flames hardhats scattered like dunes the doom the goddess sometimes know, speaks to herself just under the sun until death do us good it’s a good life he promises her children to water to pluck at the jugs while she’s walking they scream for saviors like irises but what about me? she thinks her irises shrunken resin-tins she lashes out on herself whips her ankles into the folds of the land she is walking I can hear her feel her heat she radiates in the southern part of her body he plucks her pubic hairs one by one he plucks her water jugs they all want to be fed and this is how the sun goddess is land a lady that specializes in erections how hard do you have to hit the land wide enough to fit the crop to grow them in a qualified womb she doubles splits herself one is a goddess the other is an escapee whose footprints are craters on the sun she draws signs she is confused to be an extraterrestrial being she abandons signs no one can see no two can hear ceramic jugs drop like acid burning the crops she will surely never hear the end of this one will have to carry the babes over oceans to prove that she is graceful as rising in the morning and limp as dawn approaching her arms are tired but she pours herself herself

Posted 11/16/10
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