Sunday, August 30, 2009

The end is a term the hand searches for

The exile’s role is serious itself
it’s to hold dimmed the sky of a 3 am
looking-out on last treetops. This was when
I lifted lost streets

Problems direct opposites vases, bowls,
plates, and boxes where thinking suddenly
stops in a part and is laden with every
ghosting voice and other trimming

Arts divulge the manufactory gauge
their force spent in past appraisals made me
similar to dwelling places, furniture,
and clothes

Elite fabricants generalize the
terrors born of bread and over-determining
every stroke on a pleased solidarity
cease to understand our longing but we

do understand it. Instrumental idols
share industry made clockwork in articulated
lioness air alight in balconies
of cottonwood and brick the howling factory

of the present gone monstrous on behalf
of insurgent futures. Thus each sound and
each moment came to turn falteringly
and mount to the other

Telegraphy unites wealth. Journey in
rustle of a silver rattling Dodge which
followed foreground while its tip remains invisible
snared in the asphalt vanishings of the street

Skyward this storm meted by the agonies
of a near - my hand can still dream of this
move - violently against the grain

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