just
like Lady Macbeth's
in
the Northeast
every
turned up collar
and
tucked handed pockets
curls
into yellowed brown regard
into
edge fields of corpse fallow blooms
the
maples and the oaks
take
turns bleeding
recede
into the cold air
of
the Earth turning
fine
tuning out our apathy
over-population
the
fall of money
the
hording of gold and guns
and
oil puppetry for profit
huddled
masses are asses
on
memory foam cushions
and
faux leather
the
smell of anything
is
reduced to an aerosol spray
printed
with a warning that asks
will
you know your way
back
to the garden
if
you’ve never seen one
I
don’t know much
about
anything except
that
I do not long for this world
unless
it’s in her wide hip slides
grabbing
hold of anything
that
can still please me
scent
portal yourself
she
says, leaning back into me
her
muscles undulating
as
I roll my eyes
like
bones in the dark
trying
to play craps
in
the back alley-ways home
the
TV is on
in
the next room
a
flood of barrel rifle politics
is
bored for sale
past
the keys
and
into material dissolve
there
is a false positive
of
heavy importance
and
earnest starvation claims
while
trying to drive cadillacs
to
the levy agent’s office
motivation
in this modernity
is
thrust and slow lettered speech
that
let people feel you are grateful
for
the way your undone
might
fit into a sly smile
a
pine cone is waiting
for
the forest to burn down again
cobbler
elves shoehorn magic unseen
tying
laces to kite infinities gathering
you
want her on all fours
crawling
in Goddess calls
and
then I realize
as
I wield this fantasy
full
of physical desire
that
surrendering means
skinning
the bones
to
part ways with destiny
perhaps
it was Brazil
that
made me certain
of
human beauty's attainability
through amalgamation
a
million shades of brown skin
in
the cackle fire of early Winter coming
in
the killing frost
bring
the plants in
hang
the flowers in rituals
of
remembering Spring
I take
hold of anything unseen
that
feels as if I could know it
by
groping past the canvas
for
a memory
for painted eyes
while
I exhale
names of disguises
one
by one
until
I fall back asleep
(…she
said repeatedly
in
a Saturday cartoon regularity
you’re
no good
you’re
covered in apathy
you
were a mistake
a
clutch of promise gone bad
squeezed
lightning burning
my
skin into your soul
you
are too early
to
find anything but holes in the dark
the
words you speak
will
always be a constant emptying
like
the wind that is searching
for
something just out of reach
just
beneath the cover of time
in
shallow rooted cries
you
are to become only
the
questions after question in the clouds
where
the language of reason
will
always die before you do…)
left
wing guerilla warfare
and
right wing terror
are
conducting
a murder of my persona
bit
by bit
spittle
and wipe
repeat
and rinse
in
the paradox
of
voice-boxing my quiet
with
tiny light emitting diode braveries
by
my side
the
horsemen and the plates
of
silver supper time
are
corruptible veins of mass distortion
in
the radio waves
mind
control frequencies
buy
hate populate gyrate
blind
frenzy myself
into
the currencies of worms
devouring
the floating value systems
of
my desperate humanity
paper
here
is
a promise to borrow
the
future to pay for today
in
order to guarantee
generations
to come
must
be born with bullets for diapers
in
order to guarantee
generations
will be
weaned
on carnage
and
smothered
in
available cheap dry goods
the
plastics and the mockeries here
are
brightly colored and able to sing
from
the knees of every flavor
I am willing to eat along the way
to my sold
soul genomic mastery destinations
toting the hinge-less boxes of turning rivers
into
deserts to feed a thirst
that
doesn’t ever want to see the Dawn
stuck in the
house
of bleeding stairs
I
am falling as water
to daughters
in covens
that are
shadowy figures
breaching the dark
in broken
bottom steps
that ensure
each fall forward
I
lurch into
is another bottom
appliance
ghettoes
spirits
held in old glass
I
drink liquor and blow my breath
into
a fog onto the mirror
I
call out the witches
who
still drag curses
into
the sex of every object I handle
the
puddles of pee
beneath
the stairwell
is
a reminder
that I’ve lost contact
with
other rooms in the house
that I've with contact
with
years I’ve spent ignorant
to
my needs
that I can no longer
control my bladder
when I am afraid
as
I gaze outside
an
accordion folded future
passes
the present again
and
bends itself back
to
when horses sped past
the
train of invocations
linking
salt to the stations
beyond
the reach of muses
I
well up in righteous anger
and
weave both arrow and blade
turning
the tides in the narrow channels
of
kept watches of the seas
into
red killing cries
I
hear the prattle of chains
and
see the silence of Pirithous
still
writhing
his
eyes fixed as stones
on
Persephone’s laughter
and
the crimson stain of her lips
and
I realize that my hands
are
the same color
that
they are filled
with
the same desire
and
that they
might
have never been clean
just
like Lady Macbeth’s
before
she ever whispered
for
the council of death
EJR
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