Sunday, June 10, 2012


o you afraid of the blank page
afraid of the kind
of change that transmogrifies

possession and horror
passion and realism
made grittier by the telling

still the sea remains the sea
the air is still the air
as the poet said, ah, the familiar tautologies

that define and comfort
that dumb-ass you push
in front of you called the self

wake up, you call, as if the dreaming
is one more payload of dirt and shit
wondering if the answers are in the questions

don’t collect more tears for the text
do as cronenberg’s brundlefly
who dreams he is a man, and loves it


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