Thursday, 1 November 2012


The coma of hunger
dwells in far interior
automata, alone
muscling no milk
down in fists

stop it!

No one speaks to
the enculturation
as planes overtake their shadows
now forced and forever close to the floor.

Swallowed gurgles — a start —
swallowed air — helpless —
a body backs up —
— a good boy
swallowing — milk —

— a voice —

to each swallow whooshing
faraway — whooshing, crashing
in all directions

an absent trick

only brokered days — of silence

— and sanctions
turning into years

— until let go —
landscapes filled
our painting-poems
with slimy things
upon the slimy things —

and that was that —

salesmen gave up
on making us more American.

The surroundings adjusted,
and — the swallowing subsided.

Yet writings of the dead left no doubt:
no strangers to narrow escapes,
the swallowing fills our ears —
even today — faraway —

seeing past our partings —
and betrayals — letting go
the interchange of fire
and floods and love of the land.

*German for "the part of a person not under the brain's control."

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