Directions on making man

Huddled and happy I am oh so
dismayed today that spores
grew up tall and grew faces.
Those flabby soft grey
heads malleable as opinion,
those germs dormant in
the mining guts of men!
Food and ore the crust—
backlights pointed like pistols—
a glare of walking uranium—
cold hunching over prostrate body—
the filthy sun watches—
a suburb in pastel blazes—
passed out from the speed—
children tacked to their shadows—
the dogs meow and barking tigers—
impact of a five-fingered bruise—
broken collarbone and jagged nose—
oh how we move, our bones
the water balloons high
on the air we breathe harder than us—
I sleep on the cotton of my cheek
that lends to everything
its own flushed depressions—
like years a bowel goes
at the strike of lunchtime—
everywhere a wild perfume
animals and killers know of—
forty times the guns ring—
he drops how cranes drop
their luggage his twisted form
that slept in an eye—
she may not crouch near blood—
mothers the size of doors
paddle off as rooftops sing
their heads on fire like mine—
holes in the drying skull—
what was the name this boy stole—
a googol of bricks lie around—
the towers wept and fell down—
all color all people blackened
or their pieces left are—
the sweet taste forgotten
by immigrant natives clothed
in fur and hugging mud—
so soft society that cannot
handle an argument of vices,
or the things we grin to alone—
the first beer killed a family—
sex or near it the first morning—
first blood that fed first grass—
first meal, the first forever
shaking in his crib—
the headbob of boiling brains—
electric eyeball that spins—
wires through the fist—
lovely roses around the blast—
footsteps of water like limes
under the trampling dirty—
they drink, I drink and push
a skin through my finger
the staring needle—
clothes glued to meat by meat
the other people—
push in, form them for them
that winds may retire the job—
to say, to demand they
keep up their dying—

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~ by Jeremy on May 4, 2011.

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