18 January 2010


Too many tired cop cars filled with tired cops
Hands spread over buzz-cuts or grazing my
Papers, some other day's work, filthy little
Camera tricks cheapen real color
& the near-white screen, resolution so radical
So high now, for what? Black tire after black tire

On parade, irony manicured and concave
With privilege assuming their cult, a fraternal wall
Just. Just as. Just, as I am an addict
& these are my only hot, smiling addictions, plainly listed:
The bent grammar of observation & its distant

Hung from Pyrrhic diaphragm
Where only slow, emboldened
Diagonal aggressions march over & over
& into the spectacular hanging & dead sun

Where one charter ends, another begins
At this intersection, a beautiful & hopeless word,
Of 34th & 9th; the sour aprons laughed cold
Passed by blank power, buzzed and blue
The listing and its sirens roll on & on
& victimless. Their various acids invert
March on the Real Capital, lose their shit
And abandon decorum, faith down the road
From goodwill and straightaway their partners
Full attention heretofore earned turns the barrel, blistering
toward the hanging & soon dead sun.

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