Through the insulted bird chirp, through the wallpaper tongue
passes a face of ten thousand eyes, years
not of a human realm. It is a
coil of harsh hands, stone-hands of light-bulbs filled with sugar,
and the whale-color of houses hushed, architectural
physiological encoded diagrams decisively blurt
a terribly gnarled foot marks the carpet:
slowly, with accumulated tomorrow,
with shadows gnawed off by summer, and dreary
wall-squeezed days walk in a brow
rinsing among insomniac neighborhoods.

Faucet water and pollution and the pale lawn
that the sycamore emits, and especially
the air that the cars have struck furiously,
exhaust tables, touch
the spoon, stop
in the rec center,
and large spiders grow in the formless
laments of baby cockroaches, while down in the basement
a door locks, time
flowers resembling an abundance of turtle shells.

Where is the grasshopper-violet born?
Where the necktie is outdate and the middle-schooler is not an icon—
over mountain-teeth of rotted moths,
dust advances,
smashing ring tones, gnawing on absent art,
bringing lawn chairs to mourn
voiceless spaces covered in the cement of statue-rosettes, the
bulwarks of what we all stand for, non-
dismembered banks in metal-detection, a garden
of wool-sponges enlarge against computer photo albums
wounded by the rain, the hunger for an airplane, and the oversized
movie advertisement struggling with an invisible panther, too
much thunder geraniums the stores of highway-factory, honey
has become spoiled in the disappearing winged-cough, the
windows of shiny glass
weave everything into covering mortality, if
tasted, retreat, the dampness envelops injury.

Perhaps a stifled lung, the contract
of bodies, the virtue of the weary after-work who nest in the
important chimney, the store
aisles, implacably immune to assassination, the passage of
gasoline into the mouths of a hidden
regiment, percolating with the fashion of rivers, amongst
tin cans, the light, a
silent pressure of nameless fists
which finger-twitch differently than
fibers used to flatten the surface of their families, limes
surround the facades of television-air, cutting
at it, while danger
gnaws at the sleeping-circumstance,
brick-built, water-spill, a
fried-fetish of chicken-fat axes the wagon to death.

Lurch of a broken thorn and holes in an ocean wave, future
of the fragmented cardiovascular
wholesomeness, objects arrive from
wandering within blind splashes of
traffic lights and poisonous
confines of spoon-shoving jet-fuel into the mouths
of confused wind, stripping
color before it found a moment wounded
upon the extermination of xylophones


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