A Dazzling Discourse On Method

Musical Chairs

imaginary gardens with real toads in them — MM

Homage to R. S.

Every sentence creates its place.
It becomes impossible to get lost.
Poetry provides a map to the unknowable.
Poppies grow from piles of shit.
Old chairs in the back yard rotting from winter.
Ammonia’s odor hangs in the air.
A white butterfly atop broken cement.
Dead soldiers bloated, engendering maggots.
Morning’s divine hangover ascending.
Fissures split the bedrock of disbelief.
Violence is embedded in disbelief.
She masturbates in the cemetery of facts.

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