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By series: Bridge St  In Yr Ear  Ruthless Grip

Why I Am Not a Poetrist

Too many bodies
                   crumple
in the imagination's
precincts

 

 

And anyway
I'm not free

so why should I
sound
            that way-

 

 

Can you
            give away
as much kindness
as you have?

 

 

Or, as the Just Assassin's cruel
calm lies to you
out of love

is it the glove
that looks lovely

aerating the
                   tender

lexicons
get the job done?

 

 

I dunno I just
signs ma name n
            sails off-

(hear the crippled
two-step
down the hall?)

 

 

I just
knew you'd be coming!

as would a
wronged youth wait

before making his gift of
                      dead seagulls

 

 

Oh longest dive of
                           millions

eyes glazed over with

rush hours' CAN'T
care as a verb as
an action not 'felt'

 

 

She looked across
the street and the tears
spilled
down

(all the narcissus
planted in rows)

 

 

Boxy fruit of
what it's like to
                      swallow
"Life Tastes Good"

O where are those San Francisco
                                        promontories?
where, the frog?

covering all wounds
with wet kisses

 

            song:

            all the women are
            the most beautiful ones
            on the train I
            can't keep my eyes off
            you I
            can't keep my

            acquarium     hooded

 

 

then?

the boxcutter
rampage broke out-

               What

Extension

                        Please!?

 

 

like the too-tinged
colors on our
porn-box Who are you
doing this for?

 

 

I mean "driven"

like a Hollywood
limo of yourself

Into the catchment