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Poem Two Title


I want to know more about that murder, yes.
Give me another hour of coverage, ok,
this morning isn't plural enough
and besides, I plan on sleeping all day —

I want to eradicate the baloney of my mind,
this is the quickest way to the treasure. I'm going to dream
over their hands
as they are moving.
Sleeping in news repose.

*

That small digital woman
in the expert photograph,
she's a fortune for those of us
at the editor's desk
especially me,
who keeps disappearing
in the text, replacing
the letters with em-dashes
and acting all
superior about it — she pulls me back
and soon I am writing
some marketable crap
about headaches, Pat Cash,
and the Secret Service.
What do I know? The poems
appear in a little yellow book.
She shows up
at the launch party, and signs her name.

*

Someone was fat and happy.
              (I've learned to write
on the marble.)
Does it pay to care about things?
               One could be precocious
and start a Day Op,
(first, we'd have to know what that is
and stop caring about being lonely)
              — did you forget her conversation
so quickly, because
you were drunk for days afterwards?
               Hopping on tiny leather springs.

*

I found cheeks in my blowdryer.
But it's only the sincerity
of the voice that matters.
It's only the pitch and temper
of the voice that matters.

I found a thong in my television tubes. That time,
it was getting kind of crazy.

I found a plural in my
days on earth.
Please translate this misery
into several languages.
Take a quarter with you
in case you need to call.
There are better ways of passing
for a Ninth Army tyke than whistling.

When it rains: wheelchairs.
I met Jim Jarmuch last night.
He looked kind of like
my brother, or could have been.

I found delirious amounts of affection
for my mother in my last paycheck.

   
   
   

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