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ADAPTATION
My first language Sent from the almighty
machine Was rust Acidic in the throat
To the point of disintegration Sour and
souring
Moved the tongue Through the teeth
pushed neon streamers With geriatric
force I wandered Calcified eels
Inky
slipping past chapped lips Offering
My churning mouth Seeking: A people
to deposit My language Heard of a city,
broken
In the septic breath of night A voiceless
people Seeking: Unformed brick Or tongue
of ancient
jerky I went into the wheat The wheat!
Parting the chaff Oily, cables Strung about
my fingers But there were no cities
In the wheat
No blind No lame Only the lichened flesh
Of the machine
UNMETERED DUST
the 3D printed moon on the hotel roof is the only moon performing tonight & the writers take us to the bar
to prove they have fun at times I believe this is all that’s happened to me driven to a barstool by someone
who’s now on an infinite bathroom break idk how to order wine the bartender flirts w/ a cocktail shaker &
an aggressively outlined blue lip I think I can feel the wind from here but that’s just the usual dumb we’re on
the tenth floor & the moon is a spoon gouged spectacle I rip up the menu & a (wo)man beside me bobs to is
that foreigner the whole body semaphoring through a disorganized nod words blowing out like a sheer curtain
moved to action by an industrial fan I think everything is coming into me or has already left & they’re
asking me out to see the roof patio the moon I’ve never been one to attract attention & that statement’s so visible I can’t see any thing else where are the writers a huddle’s formed in the northeast corner they’re solidifying a strategy to trick us into more fun probably I was at the train station all afternoon having gotten on the wrong line then off into the throng of parka-ed and scarf-ed teenagers to wait for
one to reverse me I could leave now trek into the street of no service no cabs no breadcrumbs could downsize the mean-time throw cake at the wall with degenerates huff paint in the alley then side-track and remodel the exterior should I get that number call
you tomorrow I’ll see a bird wrestle with a
piece of bread in the middle of the highway if
I feel a pressure it’s the constant pressure will
see the arch the library the historic district all
through a haze of insect guts tomorrow a folk
band sings digging in the dirt ‘til I can’t no
more on public radio & the bodies in the car croon along until satisfied in the bar the drinks
glow blue I can only see so far under the strobe it’s 12:02 I’m sick of the moon
return to ISSUE ONE
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