"Parts for the writing on the stove,
at rates that twin their touches bare in memory typology.
Every one's a snare."
-- Clark Coolidge
there is a centenary hovering here
hampering an open field a justice
but writing is not observed in cubicles
or in a bathroom stall with Saori
leave this limping fabric its lust
like loose is only one acquaintance
manifest as the figure of a rooster
fisted at the foot of the bed
one reads the rental and the rhythm
rounds corridors into an orifice of Coolidge
and where pages are simply whispers
wonders are found snared
these tight babies born of tumult
skirt the issues of shit-strung stock
inhabiting occasions of malice
like so many heartbreaks or tunes
I am a beatbird and a Starkweather other
lungs strummed as constellations of foil
and this polyhedron is smiling faces
ornate against monochromatic frowns
or another word is me
the world's strongest man or an icicle
this is where stretched beneath precious lines
blame is bowing bridges for leaping
interminable is recollection lumped
while realigning knowledge is weighted
and attention is unavoidable enormous
as fluting phrases reach the habitat truth
initial me here in a snoring reflection
a typology trespassing and diurnal
my miracles are unframed gestures mentioned
as empathies or abatements
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