City planning

—A blueprint blanketing Earth—
—It is not the sound of thunder but the clap he gives her—

Two blocks down I am in Hell.
There is one turnstile.
There is one radio station
with one blind DJ screaming.
We forgot to install a noon
and the sun is smeared on the street.
Foolish fucks and foolish dreaming.
The school is always a butchery
but that’s abnormal as the butter here
still yellow as swimming bile.
Our president’s a character the while—
he forfeited our navy, and style—
you’re a couple feet your mother coughs
in the other room without her ankles
because—no crime scene here killer—
Snow White was burned alive
there by the laundry—
spinning heads vertical then flat
mouths like hollowed canoes—
cicadas play for the songbirds—
a jackal—a jackal named Lassie—
one must walk in the white hot night
or play in the stirring hermitage.
The number is diseased.
Cameras? No, syllables are surveillance.
We’re living like Englishmen in
contorted Malaysia the sun fell on
goofing on ether. We speak English.
If women could vote or lift
their heads their hands from the floor
we could petition its old name back:
Boise, Nashville, or The District—
or we turn to murder and ask for more—
how beauty is truth when derelict—


(notes on what to do with babies)

like a scented wormhole—
flesh on the lip this bowl—
more at the bottom—bottom folds—
grizzly rushes newborn roe—
cracks, those of birth—visceral foal—
pulling—pulling at the doorfront—
woman—a bet only woman knows—


~ by Jeremy on May 17, 2011.

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