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love, world wide dirt

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Dear Shackles

Lash down the piteous rex. That low down kind of harm. I rest for only hate and love and guns and things that take. Unlearn! Unlearn the lessons of the riverbed, the points of cross bearers gloom. Slave ships and bottles full of marbles in the quake of me.

No ring, this scar, this seem, coagulation between the slates of skin. Busted roses bloom to Braille, its new kindness that retreat.

I will die young, falling shorter than the bushes in summer. crackle in the ember snakes snapping through the snow. Bravest child would kick through the neighbor’s briar patch, steal their tomatoes, apologize to nothing.

Churning out the guts now, the butcher stops to gain his footing, and he pulls, I feel lighter, intestines bust the thread that holds, no new yarn, the blood just pours and they belong to him now.

Ribs next, they pop like the teeth of a dog, the dog never gave second thought, to biting a running chainsaw. The butcher dismantles. Melon baler out and eyes next to run, to the jars and lids, tight to turn, not caring what is broken, he will simply have to begin again.

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