The autopsied parlary

In the South, we dodge poor Iran come
to roost and were cut vertical centuries
back the demons or something flayed away.

Two men speaking in tongues to each other.
Closely. Nearly Khoisan. Hide your eyes
before they fall out, before the battery

accounts of its own electric biology, little man
red-nosed on a table making charity of all your senses.
We are deaf when we cannot hear our fathers

say what they think of us. We are stumbling blind
when we don’t know which of us winks in the crowd.
We acquaint with stupor when we go this long without touch.

We cannot smell because we do not smell, like amoebas
yearning to pupate, learning to balance on a constant
wheel of useless genes in a crueler genome. And we taste

like the bottom of a working man’s foot, and after all,
that’s someone else’s footprint we carry like how Hawthorn
made his women whores, the shoes on our faces purer for it.

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~ by Jeremy on May 19, 2012.

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