getting
your glory in the afterlife (welcome to the occupation)
instead
of right here
humanity
is the object
in
the mirror that is nearer
the
wall than you might think
so
you steer off course
and
into the drink
estimate
what is next
and
writhe into madness
and
blind yourself of intention
remain
in a now
that
is forever out of time
rhyming
the robbery of crickets
stabbing
Summer in a molecular
thinned
evening staccato mystery
counting
the waves
7
to 9 cantos to crescendo
the
end knows
before
anyone can smell
the
next word turning
insect
charmed and wanting
a
piece of you
and
I too
don’t
like this world
can’t
stand having to climb
over
someone to get ahead
don’t
mind sustainability
though
I too like finer things
wish
the economy were more
global
spun shaped fat middle easy
to
follow the horizon but it’s not
so
we got pyramids and jumpers
and
thieves where you expect
solace
to be
ghost
organs
waiting
for your
banked
hopeful cells
filling
in
re-animate
your sins
when
time wrinkles
or
the ethics of capitalism
might
finally bankrupt and
we
find all the loose ends
were
not paid for
I
am an idealist
a
fool for love
the
lingerer undefined
the
seeker of beauty
without
cause or pause
or
starvation
this
is a Judeo-Christian slave nation
with
stores of roe
in
rows of life as imitation
sinners
in depots
wading
formations
waiting
for the right train
waiting
for whatever you want
because
everyone wants it too
as
I want it
wanting,
wanting you
in
the form of answers
to
the problems of my algebra of needs
I‘d
almost rather bleed out
daily
tide it
taxi
the bulge turn
of
the Sun
as
well as the Moon
still
trying to leave orbit
to
stop catching flack
and
painting the impact
with
craters that we name areas near
like
tranquility and shit
as
if any big fucking rock
hurtled
from an unknown
with
bad intentions
screaming
past escape velocity
could
be a good thing
I
want the answers
more
quickly than instantaneous
let
me explain thus
we
have a language to build
scaffolding
and bridges to shape
the
causeways and hold our water
that
safeguards the compromises
a
soul takes ever onward
towards
its own identifiable purity
meanwhile
eyes only see
toeholds
and finger grips
crypts
are walking knees
touring
life in scripts
subscriptions
prescriptions
and what
our
lips sung of hello
my
honey hello my baby
let
me make you feel special
as
you deliver me from need
I
don’t mind bleeding a bit longer here
where
sanctuary is definitely an illusion
and
never free to have
as
beauty might be a costly mask
all
the time
just
like salvation is slippery
when
a rhyme
under
the streetlight
corner
fighting for a profit
and
an early spade
to
dig our own grave
as
it seems to be
what
Americans
can
actually leave
for
their children
these
days
EJR
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