August 2

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Oh, how can I tell the perfect
things I’ve invented,
for telling the perfect
thoughts I’ve found
destroys my arrows,
slices with little razors
the inside of my throat
so that the stomach beneath,
the heart of courage and sorcery,
fills with water
aggressive as lemons.
The poet hunts
enemies with symbols,
stamps, old women, tigers,
and rats who travel countries
like musicians with stringless fiddles.
The poet throws stones as heavy
as lead or marshmallows
and clomps the rooms upstairs
sounding for needles
to insert into an old man’s eyeball
or pancreas, inseminating
populations with weirdness
and trash.
Woe to the insistent germ
who finds the edge of a dish
and taps and asks the god
to play on the inside
where moats burn the clouds
into scalding steams
and the caterpillar writhes
on a surface of blades
and the eyes
becomes a joust
of flowers against the sky,
sun bursts behind the windows
like flower swarms.

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