Sunday, August 7, 2016

SPRING '16

St. Augustine, FL The core of me is in the sea; It captures me and pulls on you.
Father calls "never turn a back to the ocean; the danger is high it will eat your blind side." The roar that approaches asks only to open a mouth that she can drain out of. She foams at The mouth to ravage her children. She foams at The mouth to cherish her youth. ------------------------------------------
Dame Water, hold our messages please. Tell them that Grit and Dirt and all their underlings have tumbled out of their skins into the salty wind. -----------------------------------------
Clearwater, FL Calm and craftable, Roy considers dying. Somehow the incarnation both of the wastebasket illustration and the lunging dolphin statue next door, he teaches himself about his own malleability. Street qi gong over the trash can under a telephone number in the sun toward the bricks shoulder straight collar crooked, he watches himself die in the window pane three times before lowering his hands and returning to the Starbucks to shed even more layers. Sun rolls over Skyblue thickens Dog leashes tug along to a better sense of humanity. The idea is that dog people are good people. But Roy gives no fucks by now. He's ignored the appropriate amount of questioningly indignant faces of passing flight attendants -- I mean scientologists -- to ascend to death for fun. Now he is playing dead. Roy's ghost breaks upon us all eventually.
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So the catfish and the bird dog met each other by tooth and tailbone. A junction of swamp domestic strung around a crown of antlers and rose bushes. Where are the berries? Where are the riots? When it all hurts and falls off at the kneecaps, comes apart by way of moonlight thrush; When the coyotes wail at the sirens and blacken their lights for the procession of a buttery smile across the night sky;
When the water is still, not for lack of wading, but because it's man made and the gators are all busy being "molested"; When the underside of a gazebo shimmers with street lamp dust: a fraction of us all rages bezerk thwops around our ribcages and threatens to bound through our skins from the inside, just for the chance to come together in a shriek or a shrine for the purpose of power intact for IMPACT. WHERE ARE THE FUCKING RIOTS? Mine is between my throat and my spine. His quivers beneath his right shoulder blade. Hers just under the heelbone. Some swimming the marrow. Some buzzing the nerves. Which of us will make the first cut? My money's on the man in the red jacket, sideways scowl and swollen eyebrows. Who soothes him? And why does he burn to begin? ----------------------------------------- green awning, umbrella blondes bikini resistance: on. boys cringe against the sun while occupied with each others hands drawing and elasticizing their own imagery for the purpose of heavy lifting. one year's worth of dreaming scheming and sliding and making up bent ideas and skewed perceptions like "How come blue pens aren't as effective as black ones"
and "if they held the smoke in their left hand I wouldn't feel so attacked"
I am the daughter of caffein. I am less focused now but more deranged, a malignant stone wall of cornrows and boundless entropic catcalls. Say it out loud Tear asunder the roof from the hallway and ridicule me above the hanging plants on the terrace.
sign your sound across the mantle. the lawn chairs will echo in reply the name of their chosen fertilizer. When everything jumbles together and peels itself away from the cartwheel against the noble will of gravity, circumlocution will liken itself to anything but downhill. Pop songs and ritual. If I had wings maybe my shoulders would stop itching. Humans are so fragile but humanity so brute-ish. fueled forward by hubcaps that resent their axles and tires that hate each other for daring to work together. The driver hates the gas and the gas feeds the children but starves their parents. And everyone hates Dad. Returning to the world of mindless symbols and quick sarcasm to round out the edge of what I don't understand about my own hands. ------------------------------------------------ Orlando, FL Blame it on the chemicals cartharsis is its own drug got to be alone something so natural come on too strong and stay too long. Lavish lifestyle of the bitch and blameless. bloody little monster beat you squeamish music falling out the mouths of tinsel rooves and tinsel towns.
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Mount Dora, FL
Take me to the 414 set me outside a Wal-Mart store so I can watch a nation pass me by pass my time between their lips and tumble it under the wheels of their shopping carts. Nervous parents reaching through sidelong glances for post-expense cigarettes. Their children bounce around in the humid fluorescent. Tufts of grey plastic bags lined up and stuffed like fluff grids into
metal cages quiver and sway in transport.
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Cardboard for sleeping cardboard for signs cardboard for keeping boxes of limes cardboard for padding cardboard for heat My cardboard fulfills all my needs on the street cardboard for propping or propelling the show Cardboard, Oh Lord of Life on the Road.
---------------------------------- Eustis, FL Chapel hazards halfway backwards in some groovy curtains of falling blossoms. "labor on, son
be careful not to go too far" If I've measured it right my leisure denies the last living bird its dive. If we're living it right hypotheses ripen best under streetlight.
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Call it a warning shot. We were under the moon and one florescent, brighter. Me arced and cleaned in his softness Him roped and wedged into mine. Sighing. Eventually, in the anticipation of each other's sleep
in the gap of two half-walls in the dew under the blackened moon atop the cardboard bed frame on the outskirts of a stockroom, Water. rip zip, tug boots socks where? roll bag WHERE??
dry air quick as she come we are out of there.

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