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Monday, August 16, 2010

Lines from Club Charles

viii. yankees

Speed balance clarity cleanliness humanity precision and detail--
passwords of the aftershaved pagan
open up the door and pour another panacea.

Every day is like trying to drown a fish.
You can see on the faces of hot moms
longing through the fritted glass
three stories up on the parking lot become their dream

(conveninent symmetry, smooth as ice,
your basic temple forget the god)

the world goes on
for those who need it to:

sweaty bureaucrats with bloody cigarettes;

raccoon, patron saint of car crashes;

Gaddhafi, Berlusconi;

fleshbound megatons wavering in front of the Cheetohs;

endangered birds in human weather
lifting up its thunderhead
landing in electric fields;

lost voluptuaries
tumbling through time
when all they're really after
is a little fast food and wine.

There, there,
exact to the necessary,
among the resurrecting jets
in suburbs bleached
to gulch and culvert
I'm holding fast to ancient laws
as frills dissolve
and the brownest clouds go unresolved
to slough brown rain or carry on.

They carry on.

Now a roll of the dice separates what's fetish and what's fear,
chewing the enlightened fruit to breaking news,
doing to the universe
as it has done unto you.

The game is the same. The end is written
before it begins.

Yankees win Yankees win Yankees win Yankees win Yankees win

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