THE MYTH OF DEAD HORSES

That the tulip-eyed sunlight trots over the country
floating cities from the industrial farm
in the plastic of its trademark

glide suffocated through car capped rays

dry breath of cattle at the secretive wheel
and stars striped cold

smell of trees in bloom
near dog warning among hubcap
and the melted hold
clocked with sheep street smoke of city houses hooded,
streets turned country where shots were heard.



The world turned death
on a star striped of legislation,
as if faith, pure as the drifting world
were a chapel of law-enforcement,

as the food and rays of the sun
and humans unearthed warps of fire
that burned in their hearts and brains

torn and alone in their bodies,
houses in a capped bottle.

And burning then in fire-lit streets
circled by de-winged boats of their tongue’s bird’s wooden flight, and the sewage
curb asphalt as cotton and
pecked-school’s un-restful sleep
till flame of the clock crow
lock on the framed picket-yard-badged and morning folks stumble out with their shade,

cattle turning
mousing uniform stepping quiet

the calcified hearts of birds roaming and hunting
the gas station attendant gentle in register
over fallen insight 

and all the woken farms at its white trademarks,

people knelt, wept, prayed,

by the split and the black spot on locked bright light 

and the plastic and pre-sliced bread in refrigerator shade,

in the muffler houses
in the speed of night

at the point of heart-meeting
forsaken and terrified. 


They knelt on the cold statues

they wept from the eyelids of stone
they prayed to an expression frozen in rock
may their hunger flood upon exposed white bones
past the idols of shops and stores
sky roofed rooms of priced light 

and the park pond window and the
open-eyed hidden silos alone into homes of whispers

and fires where they go prowling down a cloud
of a butane dilated hatchet
and rush in the lairs of escaping smoke.

Their naked need stunned and shot-provoking knotted
though no sound flowed through ears’ cottoned-air
but only the weather stitched hunger
of birds in the cites of the slices of water
tossing-and-turning in high fructose corn syrup
and the non-existent harvest melt on their tongues.


And their nameless need tied up burning and lost, 

when cold as below freezing they should run the wheel of the country among
streets mouthed in night 

and drown in the drifts of a need
and lie curled caged
in the always anxious ground of luminous surroundings,
inhuman rocked and the marriage slept forever seeking
by the believer confused in insubordinate cast of light.


Deliver human cries
by losing all in heart
and set-aside a need
alone and skinned in the engulfing unified-tomb
never to drive in the cities of the cotton seed
or bloom beneath
clock dying people. 



Listen.

Legislation sings in the departed families.

Midnight enforcement

dust in the buried concrete
flies on the dumpsters of winged-sleep
and smog on the winds of the dead.


The voice of the dust of slices from the water bread gas station.

The intelligent runs with entertainment and bottled water knotted up.

The morning circles
on pigeon door-steps
and the long dissolved glisten
teach of melting iron.

The sculpted mouths in the statue
air sucked vocal chords.


Clocks sing through
intricately decaying ice drops.

Listen. 



It was a hand or noise,
in the forgotten continent that flew the dark door open
and there outside on the slices of the street, 

a pigeon rises and rayed
a burning union with the flag.


A pigeon dawned,
breasts covered in silken-down.



Look.

And the people move. 


On the decapitated limbs of trees
spring bunched green park leaves
severing in lamp post light
as a dust of birds.

Immediately,
the undead tire-iron engines
metallic nightmare driving,
turn and gallops gas-drenched
white houses in the industrial farms of pigeons.

The dead forest walks for union.



The statued limbs in the stone move,
as to battle-cries.

Cloud-shapes of the outdated park lake neon.

Lies of the age on the rock built in street-time. 


And the car shaped voice of the water’s bottled lower
in a flag of countries.

For union,
the myths raise children to rise as roses.

Look. 



And the wild wings advertised
above a flag-helmet
and the soft metallic voice 

driving through the house as though pigeon praised 

and all the fundamentals of the slow rain escaped 

that humans knelt alone in the plastic of the trademark country,
 in the cotton and calm
by the fit and the black lock in the block bright light. 


And the sky of airplanes
in the smoke-plumed voice
electric-charged people up
ran an air after the stacked flight,

past the blind industrial farms and
grocery store of the dry aired country.
 


In the dismantled poles of the non-seasonal year, 

when black birds fell,
priests in hidden yard-rows 

over the cotton of countries
close buildings rode far
under single limbed leaves ran a bark of trees
and fast through the shifts of thicket-gear
antlered city deer windows
blanket and prayers down the knee-deep gutters
loud on the numbed streets all night lost
and standing in the wake of pigeons
through the clocks and cities and gangs of car light. 


Witness and look where they drive
myth ripped street

airplanes
pigeon
union
stripe
need
concrete stars
smile
beyond
the cities of bread slices
and the clock dying people astride
the afterlife
the grave
the burning memory.


In the forgotten continent
the door of their death shipped on
and the pigeon descended.


On a water white sill over the plastic industrial trademarked farm, parks and floating country and streets guided states prayed
to come to the last violence 

and the home of whispers
and fire
shots ended.



Walking expires on metalic-white
no longer growing food,
and, screen death,

protest snaps in the cold worked buildings of wishes
that once disfigured beaks of birds on the shallow slices

and over park ponds witnessed the shapes of clouds glowing.

The workday
mutilated of night-surveillance
and mythic dead horses
driven by muffler and engine.

The tires rotate on.

Lines of centuries sleep on the statue’s eyes till soldiers return.

Mourning rises.

Clocks hide the burial of spring weather 

that calls and knots with the fossil
and morning un-born.



For the pigeon lay huddled in a circle of stone-wings,
as though humans slept or died

and wings drove wide
and they were hymned and unified
through the streets of the engulfing asphalt

the genders’ breast the afterlife
human-headed-bird,
all were brought beneath sewers

burning in the legal room of a calcified-cow
in the spiral at the desiring center
in the flags of ice
in the spun flower of the world. 


And they rose without flowering in a melted country.

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