"How xhall he who is not happy,
who has been so made unclear,
who is no longer privileged to be
at ease,"
in a sort of hell how, out of trace and necessary garden where the branches
made done as snow flakes who cannot be done, who could, disarm
decanted the sufficient spare
the wilderness, and be changed
black convent
how can he make the points in size for a chimp
a beak slave and a wagon thistles moving plush--pushes
toward the headland and the fort spits them out
stay a sheep as she does, unlimbed by her nerves
a rhuby that grows to his feet and honey-bones dissolve
where altogether is too much to remember, raises himself up
again under the fixed palm, the , the who
congee picked my mother, luckily mornings
laid open and the chopped chives garlic of spin and won
headlines, my father he who brought it home close to the
chest and shouted, 'damn' and ragged hisself to the frail
depth of the forehead and behind the green, shade of decibels the
mourning the five sixes and the touch spot,
tig and mig welds he taught to me, in bitings of shorts
in smoke of wicked fires that launched a thousand million
ragged flies, turned to us, and had the electrodes melt away, stuck often
in the makings on one hell steel, non longer lush and speaking
and awkward the shade settles over our brows
and felt, the m
the blinding m(
a rotted place
the immigrants of steel head here the grinder, upside
down it is often loaded by the son and he was I, there, in the
field of bites, paradise that waited in the cold room electric by nature
deduced by the gals and the woman who stills remains unloved by me, stays
in the city northward and showing the soil of my
bones that crossed hea ily
stronger away, always the free--
as he is, as she is, as lovers do, as woolen suits, as crooning
mouths and frothing who will do as told without wavering the branch
even in the lit room and what was once a beautiful face
speaks unto me, blinded the four o clock return, punch
clock and card gets made and hurts until
until it hurts
and the whistling spells
out in the cement, again, in the yard
where there are no flowers of
but only plants of use,
as I, my father has me put to it,
cut a frame of a basement door and stoppage
the water in withers thats drive slowly
counts, counts, freezes
who will be given that? a wrist movement, which too slow will get the
spot weld stuck, our black faces we looked into each other by the side
and wherever I ever encounter such a hard and blinding spot, such as sun
such as moon killing and base surprise have me outward by the knees
biting at me, skeeters in the daytime, young brisk felines
shoulders it through the gate.
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