be my balena

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if you knew the whale

was tired, why would you not let him

sleep.  you know that the brain while it

slumbers is like a

mechanism that is cleaning its self.  After the war,

we’ve needed to clean these giant creatures

out.  they’ve all been traumatised and

won’t leave the black sea.  I told you we should

let them sleep, I said that they need to get

rest.  I can roll with them only so

long.  tears roll with us.  salt in my

eyes, built

to the size of

basketballs.

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po po polynesia

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on the eve of my niece’s

second birthday, I jumped into the

sea off the coast of Rapa

Nui.  I was waiting

for the trade ship’s return, but

it was lost, it seemed.  there was no one

man near me except for

one, who was a slave.  we made each other

fish, we procured them and

we fed them to one

another.  it was night before we came to the

conclusion that we would die alone, so

we decided to fix racism if we were

going to be fading away in vain anyway.

the small fibres in the center of a rope

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the cook comes to get you.  he wears a

brown hood and his hands don’t slip

on the rope, but the raft begins

to rock, his face remains still however.

there are not many in our party

who seem calm.  the light barely goes

down.  he tells us, from fifteen feet out that

the fish is coloured by rainbows.  the unpaid

interns roll out our

leopard pattern

carpet and we step on board

before the final step of our life

on the mainland.  the marlin won’t

fly anymore, says the cook and ferry operator, referring

to our software that

interacts with

destructive biology.

someday I wanna wear a starry nite

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aint no hat i got, but its a potted

flower plant that I forgot

to water and put on my head.  nevermind, if

you go ’round the corner there, then you’ll

find something called a devil’s tower and

if you keep going past there, you’ll

find an atlantic ocean.  now if you keep swimming when

you get to that, you’ll be able

to feel the sweat and blood of

hopeless people, beware

the draculas that haunt

the bottom of the sea, though, they

are hungry for your kind.

late october mornings with a distant relative

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in the kitchen he was telling me one thing

and doing something entirely different.

the venison wasn’t set to any

flavour.  there were spices all across

the kitchen, but there was no

interaction with the meat.  he said that it was

sacred, to kill an animal, that hurting anything

living was so difficult that he

would need to cherish the flesh to such

an extent that he would only

give it the truest taste.  jeremie lays

it over the velvet

shawl and begins to weep.

we want a new nation

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what was difficult for him was

to display the

order to burn the fields, with

embers that were

built into the droplets

of ink.  he says that the fields

of the gaelic don’t need

permission, that he knows it, knows what

they want.  the chunks of gold between the

legs of the centimeter.  the flames are reborn in

the earth and

the

moon becomes fire in

the night, the potatoes drop from the sky and

dinosaurs drop on the gaelic, the seekers of truth and

bigotry.

angling teeth in mediterranean sea

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a lion has hot whiskers, he waits

for the falling pigs

at the edge of the sea, where

the sharks have swam away.

they’ve sensed something, that a being has

come to tell the

men about the danger of

eating pork.  a lion waves its whiskers

until they cool down and the lion

doesn’t care about the men, the men

are sad, but the lion is blood thirsty

and waits for no man.

baby don’t you wake me yet

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If seeing enemies in

the day time made

the future any easier

to touch than I would

forget about the case that I have

with my son, to find the fat child, spilling

chocolate at every instance.  he was lost in

the forest and crying, I could hear him.  UNtil a man

in the sky wearing a baseball

hat and a bracelet told me where to go.  I would forget about

it in a minute if I knew who

was bad and who was only using me

to their own ends.

came for a while, jetted off in style, made a statement about the heil

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a silver man with big hands

and a long neck takes off his glasses

and cleans them, then he

notices that the orangutang was

looking in the other direction.  he gave the

ape a hug.  the man began to weep, not

knowing what was to become

of the animal.  the future of the land

was to be decided across the

state, where many local

chieftains were being

blown by brazilians, flown in

in from the amazon.  the neck of the man

is saggy a little, but

he is still attractive in his own way.

so much depends on/ the bubbling of/ provolone cheese

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why did they dump

the tomatoes down the well, said a local

man when I came to ask what

had happened.  ‘They have given us

pizzanitus and we can’t stand for

this, there need to be

those in america

who have an understanding of

justice.  we are only humans

and my son has

his eyes turned

to mushrooms and my daughter has

been turned into

a pineapple.  we do not eat pineapples

here.’  this is a disgrace.  I wrote it all

down, but in the

end I knew that my editor would never be

sympathetic to the damage that the domino corporation

has unearthed

on the islands of

seychelles.