|from Where The Desire Goes
You launch out most days
already drowning, a hand
from the past over your mouth
or maybe it's your own. And
your choice of materials: baitless
senses, thought once thought novel
now a long list of disabuses.
Now camping's cool. It always was, in
in the meantime, which is now averaged time,
regulating the weed takes all day. No
longer embittered against any simple
good offered, shit is kind of funny.
And sex without love isn't. Frugal
apprehensions go slack, wrinkles in
all directions. Bored faces creased
sharp for show on the street for strangers
numb out to outrage radio, the fog and fluff
of spit, open-mouthed breathing. Ring out
your plosive screen once in a while. Yeats
was sort of right: the shopping center did
not hold. At the fairgrounds in summer the
4-H raised hogs smirk: 'It's happening in Soledad.'
State-farmed prisoners pork union pensions, line
somebody's bacon. I see you holding that head, farmer.
I see you cutting that lettuce farm-laborer. The
radio dribbling outrage, looking for the bad guys.
J.P. Morgan? Sure. A little humiliation doesn't
go as long a way as it used to, if it ever did,
depends on the family of man you're from.
How's it taste? Swallow the amuse-bouche of
punishment, the punished playing slapdick
and watching isn't even fun anymore
much less tugging at your own junk. Gossip's
lost its salt, just suet
and flies, elk jerky sucked on.
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