thirtieth

It’s easy to get lost among the throngs of people spilling their squeaks and sweat onto the platform.

The hour approaches and trains.

One person laughs like her hand is made of gelatin and there are bugs inside it crawling through the veins.

Another person smears their future into the lit interior of the line.

No one dares to step on the railing.

No one asks the lines in the ridge of the tube to do more work than their paygrade suggests.

One person keeps the phone facing his finger and the finger facing the phone knows how to impress the light there gentle, like it loves to stretch its lines across the glass, as if before this moment there was nothing it knew how to do right.

As if is something the finger finds in its tip and beneath it.  

Further down the platform the bodies become mute or mutinous.

Motion sends the still image into full blur.

The next train is a question that arrives without the email attachment.

The next train is all burned brakes and slick maneuvers to ease toward its center, holding all belongings still and steady.

One person looks into the mirror and sees the folding lines of their face and each mile it’s taken underground to get to that reflection.

One person smudges the future with her ear above ground, a city rumble coaxing her shoes unstable.

The sign reads itself to sleep above the waiting midday travelers.

One person waits for all the others to board and then remains in this image, never getting home or to work or the friends who’ve gathered to wish another year full of wine and deadening winter.

There’s heat in all of us when we gather.

Heat and the folding stack of what we are always afraid to enter. 

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light place and plays separated by the third and the fourth – or 29 later than late

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Once crossing the open platform of light

One crosses the level’s threshold – gaining experience and pointing

To the space above where one is sent to adjust one’s belt, to build a choir

Of symmetrical shapes – break the swamp, the square, the squire

When the lights go out in the blue stone future, the ache

In your head is only a number of births vibrating their essential

Weight and character into their stone surroundings so that we can eventually

Come to sleep like a washed out foundation for an unbuilt home

Like a dome in which the hall is halted, light pale in its pouring and whatever suture

Clamps shut the sky from this hole I am its bellows

                                                                                and the kneeling

Before an absence of fire, these elements coalesce and we wash the light then

Our hands empty, the spaces filled and turning as we step each turn down

Into what is above us – a natural tendency to stand with

Our heads full of static and turn them off, switch in the field

Cornered as if there were edges to unbuilt things, switch

Positioned to what this would be without fluorescence

And the singing of bulbs, squares upon squares and the pie

Of arcs, arches in a pattern, and to place a diamond shaped in as substitute

For sapphire, to lace the light in different hues. 

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Negativism – 28

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When the fire came

To this door

It knew not

What to do – the double

Negative trouble

It had always been

Warned against

Came true – like an Acme

Fix for the coyote

That actually

worked

 

The building thanked

The sign construction crew

For its lack of grammatical

Awareness

 

We all learned something

In that blank space

That inevitably arrives

After a second no. 

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continuing on until the numbers match up…27

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Bring us your tired

Your flame-retardant

Your scaleable wrecks

Your Komodo and bearded

Your motherless and meek

Your floppy-disc’d and analog

Your hamstrung and cloistered

Your mythic and distressed

Poorly documented or quest-worthy

Winged or winded

Or otherwise marked

For the sale bin or compost

Heap – we have this truck

And the ability to forge

Scientific documents, to beat

The past out of our best clients

There will be no trace

Left, just call the number.

You’ll know when

You need us.

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mmm 26 brainz

The zombies are

Only us

In moaning

In mourning

And their shamble

Toward whatever

Want the basest

How a quick

Foot and bat

Will come in

Sound thwack and

Handy – almost

Like how

All the signs

Have warmed

Our hearts

Have warned

Us, I mean

Look at how

Well they’ve

Captured

Cursive – curses

I mean, damn

them – err, us.

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twenty/fith on thirtee

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Gods are handing in

Their stab wounds

 

My what a beautiful

Conquistador you make

Your head

 

Among the wheel pile and pull

A farm hands the background

Its menace

 

We dance with whatever

Shadow downs enough east

 

That the sun can calm and clamp shut / On

it retreats back to its hitching post

                               

When the mail comes it is as blue

As your inked finger prints

The idea of prison in them lines

 

& our hides gone

crisp as the potatoes

That brought us here

 

To plant a native seed

All you need is a hole

And the dirt

 

What’s left of this time

Is tile

And tied red round the mouth 

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24th on 30

This parchment strips the paint

Free form slumber you

Are rent free here in one case

Cap thrown and gradual

A strap gold and sutured

To the combing sun, each

Lower register contains

A series of coins minted

Minutes apart – the year

Blazes on in many forms

Go look at what the paper

Lays before us – one thing

Pealing, while all the others

Slight whatever’s blue.

Them gauzy in their gather.   

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