in which without a need love sees you
particles for pentecost

after scatology

“Poets should get back to saying crazy shit / All of the time” —Dorothea Lasky


You can like or not like the end. Excluding

the bright and inconsiderate consequences of

Liking colors camera-like synaptic & cohesive.

Look here’s the resolution you’ve been seeking all week!

These are not smart people. Not even kind. They are ours.

A portion will be donated. To an act of faith. Obedient.

You can assume the fiction. All that heaviness allows.

Will be allocated. Upon receipt of your declarations.

Our good will. A defiant temper. Coming here in roses.

Reading poems but not Poetry has been good for your skin.

When water implies a pasture. Then a crazy barking my love.

A perennial inability there announces Me in grimy glory.

As old maniacs pronounced it. Jedermann. Sein. Eigner.

You get it. A stumble near the goal. An urgent heave-ho.

To the line. Concussive. Blasted infrastructure. A bruise.

Lightly. As usual. Silent. In it. Silent. As usual. In light.


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