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Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Lines from Club Charles

x. mach 9

Pregnancy. Thunderstorms. Postfinancial coronaries.

The days are ferns unfolding in a crystal-granite sea.

I sit in the city's erotic enormity-- a tsunami of architecture
encounters a tsunami of fog. High mist
plays tricks, swells the buildings
like breasts under gauze,
larger than life,
almost a real town.

From such overestimations
I deduct my dreams and voila,
reality downs,
a fearsome, wounded bird:

slanders and promises in front-page ink,
young ladies ordering birth control loudly,
bad kids on bikes
spit, the word Bitch
rings through midair.
I ignore, I pretend, I resign, idealize.

Where did I go on fantasies and lies?
Full throttle into the oscillation--

to pace the globe on airplane flights
sipping industrial orange juice

a life as wholly without context
as the asteroid kiltering blindly toward its demise--
some trillion dollar purse of nickel and tin
recreating a world where the deaf see
the mute think
the blind move.

Now I'm finding the limitations of the miracle,
the black zone where there is no error
and nothing changes no how.

Right back here on Planet Earth:
slanders and promises
young ladies,
bad kids,
green shade.

Voila, bitch:
A tsunami of architecture
encounters a tsunami of fog.
I ignore I pretend I resign.

I see angels with orchid wings in the sky.

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