Sunday, November 14, 2010


for Emily Petit

Stopping to
talk how
this microphone is
bad at me
doesn’t float over crushes
but is spoke now
like stoning who you love
for blood in the snowfall
we can’t stop opening up for
each word with its club desire
we both know isn’t okay
like an igloo for blackness
moon is government too
moon is government too
to breathe hard
on corded phones
nature proper
to this
hymn is blazing
leaves freed solemnly
from the arthritic tree
or is it arithmetic
I was never so bad
as when trapped in feedback
whose beauty comes suckered with glee
the strangest octopus of pagan glee
whose sea evaporates into night
like an igloo for blackness
I think I meant succored
knows it isn’t right
sings only if lit
cries out endlessly
for another chance
at life
at governance
of the moon
which salutes you
for desiring a method
with which to live
inside some well-stoked quotient

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