Mutated Perceptions of the Dead

Indigenous mountain wind
does not know me
its many voices, of land,
of bodies, their own
land. A country
of severed psychic
human bodies, the news
stuffed in orange plastic
of the world. Is
to know what I am.
in the nightmare, opaque
squids with lungs
sucking nerves out of their routine
inhabitants, the wind
throws on stories, ears
are things locked in
jobs, of jobs, of jobs, to
drive to and from, conducting
a death-trance
apart from those who listen. Those
faces, I’m searching for
And who are they, with their lives and sleep. People to concern
myself; aimless person. Who,
in the complexities of their human
possibilities, their unlived stories,
stories free of maidens and dragons,
inside their heads

aimless moon
circle in the sky
light on the city

over her skin. Where
her husband was a historian
who died in the museum of police enforcement. Colors
throw on stories
over the eyes who hear, senses
for the mutated perceptions of the
dead. Whose insides,
brains, in stories, dreams. My vibration
is not theirs. Routine, inhabitants
talk. They keep distance
at what remains impenetrable. My own
dead inhabitants, my, absent
people. Not a continent
on this place left
unharmed. You are
as any other sad person here


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