Monday, September 26, 2011

My Methods

My methods are sound,
I write them down on grim slices of tissue paper.
I'm all about communication
and abbreviation. I want a simple method to make
language bump against something so I'll
cut letters from wood and toss them
at people, otherwise, just breath and paper.
See, whatever is said is done.

I know where to run along the river.
You make perfect sense to me because
you are me now and then. No one gets
tortured on my team. I win. Fuck.
As the weather shakes the sky
open a feeling of blacking out. Trusting
or wanting what smells good. That can
bring about change: the scent of a frenzy.

I load fruit leather into my mouth in mournful bites.
My paper bones fold over as grief becomes panic becomes
friends eating roast beef from each other's
mouths, literally. Like it matters what you think
at dinner, at all. You lift a cup, you tip
a cup, you grow old and whither. Watch what
you say. I mean it: watch your mouth move
in the mirror when you say what you say.


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