Tuesday, January 6, 2009

poem of the #3


I pushed all the shelves down in the library
like that one movie with the threads of sugar
where the DVD laser circle-things should've been.
"Fun is dinosaurs getting fucked into all body parts,
you book place! You moth sock!" I was screaming.
I'm a dinosaur. I am a blizzard. I'm a head loop.
I am hopeless. I am hocking what I have
to feel like I have something. It's like I'm writing
in whiteout. It's like I'm growing hair on Mr. Clean.
Do you remember when I was terrible? A day force?
I could've spun the world into a falling harplessness
What would we be without the harp to string us hopeful?
I know they divide the scales into West and East, but
all our mouths have different tones of huff and ache.
I know because I put a microphone under your pillow.
Oh my god, my ears still bleed when I think about it,
but the Sun is always listening to me. I am not a God.
I'm a dinosaur. You, I've Googled. You're a member of
six social anxiety and shyness groups that never meet.
You keep joining new ones like "this time, honey, it's
different." But there is no honey. There is no honey,
honey. This amplitude keeps repeating in my ear.
This hollow is indefinite. Falling through is a repeating.
Oh my god. You'll want to know where I keep the
blood. Well, I don't always even keep the blood,
but let's take the batteries out of the flashlights.
Let's take the Pringles out of the cans and visit
the libraries where hope is a desperate thing
that will love you and where all the holy jangle
spills away in all the holy angles of the face.

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