and my boss has not returned my email about
time off and what am I suppose to do
but water the rain until rain turns volume boom-boom-boom, bass

goes higher than skyline desires but what the hell
can a zoom-curfew afford but a little bit of retrieve from
zero holds on imprisoned doors waiting to flee their markets

as soon as cut from the canary line of obituary table-cloth setting
itself upon the chair of a balcony smoking Paris from a gun, there
must be money tied to the tree near the honey-squirting bee-hive

hissing with vengeance I cannot identify causality, yet reasons
accumulate round the smell of a generator as it hums and hums
an ancient song from a forgotten time, indicating not all things

are well with the sun;

light of a well in well-water I drop yet another Abraham Lincoln
we’ve come so far, but
not close enough to mimicking the reaches of equalized electricity, every

house made of health-care every car a donation by the government, but
that simply wouldn’t be humane
as concrete-environment enjoys the cost of capital, and if it

didn’t people would surely recount their regrets and find ways to mend fields of
sorrow, with tears of tomorrow-unplanted in the hands of slime-molds, or
would they, as silence is a severance of throat-boxes, soap washing throats away

with each sud they regenerate and propose new signs where outdated ones
were apparently worn down to a nib
a helpless flap of skin flagging in the wind-pole of what stars bow-down to

every chance they get—I swear
there’s an answer
I can smell it, in the

car engine
ear wax
dinosaur museum

in the

stinky left sock
computer screen saver

in the

parking lot
orange swim trunks
non-existent calculator

smell the
heat as it coils round the ear of a talking antelope, as it
whispers it gods and goddesses into it

forming a frame of a picture in the Sumerian guardian’s name
re-writing the future so all of us humans who look upon its face may say
that’s the reason why

what has disintegrated between our toes when
coal and gasoline
replaced our livers and television our eyes, what

did the newscast-mother who bakes great pie say when she heard
weather-father didn’t return that day
with her iron in her hand the one with nails poking out of it


to the pulsation of lack of birth-control a booming
now all of us millennial

must come to heterogeneities beneath the feet of molten-statues or
buildings waiting for train-station Yellow Stone to arrive, and will
the kidneys pass grade school like their mortgage paying grandparents

probably not exact shape a cookie cutter made and will this disappoint George
you bet on a glass of mirrors

space for frames will commemorate in the age of their grandparent’s values, but
come on
church-fed cow-grass who love their young-one’s

Nietzsche Nietzsche
Freud Freud

keep counting, come on, keep on counting, there’s more
a lot more
and as evidence stacks different learning-styles fail to climb

in the shadow of their great aunt’s sleeve
who condemns them is the freedom of what their generations’ previous
heart failure

could provide;






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