the
writer is food in America
a
poem is a hungry train with teeth
each
word is a numbered oral sound
a
want found measured in reality
an
aurally syncopated
implicated
meaning
an
irrelevancy
beyond
connected
something
that says
are
you bent from salvation
are
your prayers sent
as
dreams might be
letters
lingered
posted
token-ed metered
the
neater way
to
relax a construct is
to
treat everything
like
an orgasm
the
poem says
make
me a dopamine release
the
poem knows
when
we can no longer
take
care of ourselves
the
poem says
have
someone
dust and sweep
your
rust and lilts
tilt
the hinged parts
the
poem knows
when we are done
asking
out loud
that memory
be strung along
in
a bit by bit
grain
to pearl
song
code
the
poem says
some
of us are born
inside
Lupercalia’s
howling
whistle orchestra
that
some of us
search
for something
not
quite there
something, our eyes can eat
some
of us seek
past
the writer’s desires
tuning
out every face, every crowd
nosing
into the seeping common
languages
of what writers
disregard and regard
some
of us tie rope to rocks
some
of us stand at the beach
with
the tide coming in
some
of us work corner to corner
some
of us rub two cents
wishing
for vinegar
with
a mouthful of sugar
hate
ready to spit
some
of us arch our spines
trying
to find out why writers
like
thumbnail Moons
why we dig down
listening, leaning
into
what meaning
tastes
like strewn along
this
land’s bled highways
why railroad
junctions
musket
fires
and lady luck
cross their fingers
at the bridges
between our
images
and our orders
between our disorders
and how some things
are counted with words
instead of numbers
so we might remember
why it is we feed
on dismembering
the outside edges first
EJR
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