Saturday, March 11, 2017


given to laughter, exploding like
the fist that unfurls as a nation
and becomes a flag: there isn't a
thing wrong with literature, that
flighty temptress with her tress-

es that involve--recombining--and
measured to dress like students &
built upon a precipice.. i do not
yet know what i'm good for, mast-
ery avoided and money forgotten i

adventure myself upon you for the
moment, just in order to remember
lost time: such a vibrant paradox
of numbers and niches a hangman's
noose funny for its obsolescence;

absolutely nonever, climbing down
into the black chasm of spiraling
comorbidity that will not redeem:
i have multiple fistfuls of tick-
ets to the great and secret show,

confetti in other words, to throw
a fight and acknowledge praise in
the humility of the space wander-
er: sometimes it's so beautiful i
have to sigh, which is translated

into many legacies and their und-
erworlds-- some day i'll fly then
and everyone will see the man i'd
become and watch and burn ecstat-
ically, with nativitian pleasure.

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