On the peyote pan

White man that ocean’s flowing
your house underneath it, and the sun
took his family there
in a tomb. Let us you and me explore it.
There was first time,
that spear like hair then clothes,
when you were killers. Lovers
did not make the decade of its advent.
Some odd month the planet sneezed,
learned of sex, planted wheels
to grow like moist tobacco
stuck as gum to the Cuban’s fist.
It was like that how all the mountains
got their face, tall, dark
as the inner gears of a machine
people lie on. After all of this
children like your children
shook off the brush, and flew
like a cable of lightning.
They thought about our fingers.
If you listen to the wife’s
chest at night when sport
is only by lamplight, you might
hear your parents there somewhere
throwing back the rainwater
in the deep, where it is black,
and business is afire.

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~ by Jeremy on February 19, 2011.

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