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Postures of Belief


In this chair I am ready to right the wrongs

that have been done to a thousand facets of the diamond

procured by the ways and means committee of my brain.


In this chair the final stretch seems like nothing but a comma,

a brief strip of aluminum siding curled on a trash heap in March,

a small swamp branching out beneath the solid ground of the mall’s refuse plains.


In this chair I can write the declarations you have always seen

sketched in the fogged mirrors of cars on wintry avenues

pleased with the negligence of destiny that’s allowed me this gambit.


In this chair I will unseat all my memories and all of yours in

me and mine in you and the rhomboid I was about to cross

suddenly looks like a lozenge before a giant greedy tongue.


In this chair I am certain I can destroy the curtain that kept

me from the future for so long because the ergonomic is

the mentally tonic and now the cursor blinks for me.


In this chair I have the feeling that could dynamite mountain passes

and the weird cognition of an inventor just before the big breakthrough,

when there are no barren inches, no barriers, no barbed winds.




The Inexpressible, Served Warm


What is the point of speaking into the vacuum of our shared days?  Asphalt baking, cars splayed, failed umbrellas, the receded coast for relief: the tangle portrayed is a jumble framed.  Ten days are ten slices of the inexpressible, served warm.  We reach midsummer too fast, a premature coagulation, and the town forgets it is often deemed a “city,” and the lawns glow green in sprinkler gratitude, and the news is a parasite with teeth undislodegable and bloody.  So many moving on the streets act as if there’s an endpoint, a point, a way to get on down the road.


Summer’s big embrace: a sky gone white again with haze unfolds its gauzy arms and wraps us up, a humidity you learn to forget to feel, the langour tugging at our every movement: it’s an anchor of a hug.  It drowns the buoy, the one that marks where we meant to move.





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