Without Approximation

There is a rumor
among us here, a ruin
of smoldering bricks showcases which

is only a whisper,
but if perceived correctly
in posture to its tune—crickets

resemble approximation, Neptune
flexes a muscle and
snap-dragons indent with lamb-ear

on the corner, where
sideways glances disappear, teddy-bears
or doll houses

cannot replace
the exactitude to what
they attempted to resemble

in emotion, the
spot, so soft,
familiar, warm, and kind—the

actual place of sunlight, which is not this,
where the actual place of sunlight, is
a type of which
cannot harmonize with

another, this
within all of us, yet

exact in a moment, a
real toy house
another doll with sunset-cruise, the

as diamond
without the diamond part, without

as parting from
a scene where forgetting is
waving goodbye with a napkin and

mucus on the tips
of its tissues
are flocking in the wind

heading south we presume for winter, but
we are not too concerned
with the credits of the after-movie sensation

which crawls down our pants and
tickles us
in the places our society has deemed exploitative, no

there are emails to send and journal
pages to encounter
and phone calls to make to meet people in our discoveries

is to meet a country on a shore that cannot except guests
without first
having tea on their own accord, for the

which un-skins
its naked-nakedness
in the exact precision of our

alone, sitting
around a dancing fire, is
for us, each one of us, what

cannot talk about, can’t
even mutter
a single syllable that

replicates, there
are no paints
nor photography to administer, nothing

come so close to closeness when it touches us—
from the inside with a whisper—and finally
to arrive

to tell you this, here,
not all value is the value of our perceive
means to finding what we desire
as placed on a table for our children—there

is something else, something different
also, there
are haunts within our neuro-receptors
shouting for validation
among billions of specs
stammering and attempting to break

and wall hangings
and Photoshop replications for manuscript purposes, there
are chess

pieces without a board
and airplanes
without people aboard and
rugs never purchased, but
remain lonely hanging on the wall of Nepalese tchotchke shops downtown—

these cracks have no borders, but
must wiggle through
the synaptic-crevices of Utah

in our marrow
to find throat for voice
and all the physiological realities, which
bring about speech, they

are constantly hungry
and thirsty, searching
for a way
into our lives

from the deep recesses of our unconscious,
flickers of
images which distort
space-time, our

memoires, so
precious, don’t even
come close to the clammy-jaws
of these foul smelling swine, harboring

relevant and necessary, yet
radically different
than politics and what we find

on the internet, TV,
in video games,
at the grocery store, in
magazines, or
anywhere else that is simply not them—

no one can replace you
nor Syria
nor Greece’s economy

nor Rwanda
nor black market sex trade

is a new era

is a new ear-of-corn

era of this
new-now, ear

what cannot be
abolished once it is
is what then allows for something else

not debatable, a
value for this,
a value for what we might
really look like

when Mrs. Obama
lies beside her husband Mr. Obama
and we can’t

see what we can’t see about ourselves, you
can’t see what you are as you are—but if you did
if you could

wouldn’t that destroy you?


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