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There's a monster
    
           that's made my dreams
          
                               into her haunt.  

She's spilling into days where I wonder;

                                     How does a creature like you exist?

You are

              unreal.

I mean, the way you toss your head to the side

                                                     whenever you say something contrary

                                                       ­                                                   plagues me.

Following me like some gorgeous features that wont let me go

and a smile

that fills me with holes

opening me up

in ways I'm terrified to show

but what tugs at me worse

are all the ways this ghost could be known

I knew thunder that rolled off

                          electric lips
                                                
                                                every time
                                                                ­      
                                    pink
                                            
                   ­   lighting
                                      
                                      bolts
                                               
                                               mo
                                                  
                                                   ve

Speaking unafraid                                    she's free in that way
                                                             ­       
a kind of free that                                      makes liberty ashamed

and me calmly sm                                    ile while my insides are

gawking wide open                                down the middle with                              

clucking of a single coo                        coo clock keeping time

in this game of chicken I've           made out of looking  

                                                you  
                                           in the eyes.

                  Shaky hands swerve yet hope to collide
                                    
                                                                ­      sweet demon
                                            
                                                      rattle me no more
                                        
                   ­                        come closer

                               hold me still

                   show me how

a ghost can be felt.
The children of liberty’s voice
has been but a mute ripple
on the drums in this march to war,
death
   and
       de
              ca
                      y.
The voice of that capricious lady’s child could provoke the evolution

of the entire ethos and consciousness of mankind.
****!
That baby can sing!
Probably can do all the above
because it never cared about
ruling the world.
It was just trying to walk.
Those impish,
little
monkeys
with hands over their senses,
to speak no
hear no
see no
evil,
were barred entry
to Club Oligarchy.
(They’d make a mess.)
No limb left
to bang
on the drum’s of
society’s rhythm.
So hush now child.
We’re fond of *******
It makes (each) one of us
feel in control.








You’ve never been in control.












In this causal verse
you’re meat in capitalism’s grinder
and we are voting on everything
(and we really mean everything ((but you don’t know it))
you live in.
We’re gonna sit real smooth
as the misers of oppurtunity and wealth,
until our outdated and stagnant values
die with us
and take with us,
                                  more likely
                                                    than you’d
                                                                   like to
                                                                                be
                                                                                      liev
                                                                                               e
                                                                                                c
i
               v
               i
  l
i
                 z
                  
    a
                                                                                                        tion.
If you stay here and close your eyes,
you can work for a minimum wage
that couldn't help much with rent let alone a dream
But if you try really hard at a game of Simon says with ole Sam
you can carry this crippling debt around for a few decades
and get yourself learn’d
and we’ll even give you some ink
scribbled on some dead tree
to wear like a badge
of your pedigree training.
It may even get you that first option.
So you can pay what is owed
to your crippling
defeat.
I mean debt.
Sorry, we’ve rolled up the ladder for the rising tide.
But “social security”
TOTALLY
has your back when you want to die,
like us.
(Really, it will be the same and we’re good for it… promise.)  
All of you
do not pass go….
Actually, stay in this square and try not to go to jail.
Oh and you owe us two hundred dollars this time round.
There are some circles to be shushed.
And Sammy means business,
really
that is what he’s all about.
When you go to ****** the free
make sure there is no way out.
Summer beats
                                                   down on me
                                                                                         owning the sweat

                                                                                                                                       on my body

                                       the kind of heat

                                                                  you equate to distant memory

                 sweating and swearing as mother

                                                                               attempted to beat the blasphemy

                                                                                                                                            out of me.
How fitting that now,

                                     I should find myself baptized in a lake by the place
                                                                                                                                          where she has wrestled                          

                                                                                                                 a mortgage into a home.

                                            Her hands grabbing at digits

                                 from her master the banker.

                 My hands reach down

sifting through debris,  

brush

and

discarded

cigarette butts

all for a stone to cast into this baptismal bath drawn by mother.

                                                          While the only memory of my father is him teaching me to skip rocks.

                        Smooth

                oval

                                            in the wrist.

                   My record is 7.

                                              A much smaller digit than the ones that concern my mother.


           I see myself in the seven.

Gliding,

                                bouncing,

                                                                 resisting

then








sinking.

So I wonder,

                              from this place
where I peer out of my

tiny

human lens;

How much of my wrists

                                           can make my heart skip.
Had the hospital to himself
   He had broken his childhood against Army historians and mothballs
When reassembled he would say
I could carve a better man out of public demonstration and a woman's hair.
But the world had to bury him
In a coffin lined with a transparent curtain,
False perception,
And blame.
Until it all caved in
Pointed back to him
Reborn again
A stranger in  
The home town.
The
                                                audience
         was
                   sleepy.

                                                                                    So were
                                                                                                       their mouths
                                                          throats &
                                                                         intestines
                                                                                                                                         weary from all
                                                                                                                                                         the tired
                                                                                                          digestion
                                                                                                                              white wash
                                                                                                                                            
                                                                                                                          auto-subscription

                                                                                                           that's bound to die
                                                                                    
                                                                                      like you

So lace up those boots

                                            and

                                                   live.

I'm trying to
but
I could go to jail
                                                             for fraud

                                                                                            because
                                                                                                            
                                                                           old pals
                                                                          
                                                & old sweethearts

                           made a slow deviant

from what's expected.                                                                                                                                                                                            
                    
                                                                                                                    Grown men

                                                                                                                         afraid of the rain.
Sensual
Rings
          Still alive
                           Wet with hot water
     I.                                                               Cried
                   Like  
A dream
                             I
                                      Can't
Can't remember.
                                                      W­hy
                                       But.                     I
Know
Was
There.
Only forgotten when       I        Live      L O N G
&
Wide.                                                         Open
                    Containing  nothing
A  
    Pillowcase
 ­                       Full
Of yawns
Or me becoming a recording of myself
                                   The   Tugboat
      A.           D.          T.              E.         O.    E.    N
              N.                          H.       ­              C.    A

Of drugs
And wrinkled clothes

That never killed me so much
               As
                       Expectation
Your lens is                                                                                 your language
       hurting you faster                                                        to write words
              broken                                       ­                                 beauty                          ­ 
                    slowed to a                perfect                   wonder
               ­              which could                       be called
                                                          ­  ?

                                                     Impossi­ble.
                                                      Throwi­ng
                                                         honest
                                                        ch­ildren                                                                                                    ­                                                                 ­                   
                                                           into                             
                               ­                           some
                                                      dead thing
                                                      that lingers
                                                      on through
                                                         ­ all this
                                                       and takes
                                                        the form
                                                            of a
                                                        question.
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