You will not find poetry anywhere unless you bring some of it with you. Joseph Joubert

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

To The Critic

The world has washed
Its body in the gurgle down the stiff bodies
Interspersed in climate and cloud of the green bones
The world has chosen me

An organ within bleeding
with plush impulse
and metonymy
of a cult-fused moon
thriving on electric shoot
charged from its throat

all fingers in music
all fingers strumming the basics
to watch him cry
to watch him seasoning in the sun…

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