the hue of one’s labour

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after you’ve visited the northern kingdom

you return to your home with

sacks full of jewels, the imagination of

the children you’ve passed has effected

the way that you think about

your fortune.  a fighter jet

over top of you is dipping, dipping.  Do you

run away?  do you?  do you?

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if i fell, would you play for me my favourite song

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when the young man waiting

for the sun to go down sees the

woman who is preparing the

dig, he is stricken by

a siren call.  he feels white flower pedals

in his hands and waits for

her to pay for dinner before

he asks her a question.  she doesn’t understand his

dialect and moves on to

the next suitor.  a posh hotel and business class

are poor substitutes for

home cooking.

on an island, the name of idiocy

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hypothetically, you’ve drawn the blinds

and the tobacco dipped curtains

hug them like a mother hugs a

friend of her son’s.  figuratively,

a cameraman follows her

as you dress into your

hat wearing flights of fancy.  literally, you’ve

stepped

into a new room, one with all the

dvds in the world, where special editions

go to rub themselves against

the grains of life.

all you can eat pizza

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A swooping gargoyle, stone

and gravity lifting its wings,

the feces dropping and the

baseball hats raining from the

guy.  he is paper and plastic, joy mixed

with cement, he is dead

but does not come back to life, only a

paper-maché art project.  what does he mean?

 

who has he become?  she

waits for the rain, but only snow

falls and everything is silent.

you’ve been a really good friend

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sad and ruthless, a man drinks

screwdrivers until the

egyptians look like

romans.  the lavender soap runs

down the drain and washes the

pipes.  the leather bags come from

texas and they don’t want to go

back.  young and feckless, the

redhead empties her jar into

the nile, the money feeds the crocodiles,

the blood feeds the

submerged miles.

eyes coming up from the water

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a mansion on the edges of ajaccio

where the imported

servants discover, in the basements of

the big, stone house, a religion- made but never

used.  their eyes lit by oil lamp, hunger

for words that they know.  a steward of

the manor

walks down the stairs and one of them trips

and ignites a big fire, sparking an

explosion on the edge of the

mediterranean.

red steel up and red steel down

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the shadows scatter and turn white.  they

spread like small specks of drugs, into my

clothes, so when I walk past

security I find thousands of years

of isolation.  my back becomes

toned and scarred, like a drug addicts

forearm.  I find salvation

and wait for forgiveness at the

gates of the crowds, looking for atonement in

the form of a fanny pack.