by Greg Baysans
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September Cut-up
I don't want to recall recoiling in pain stomach punched in buses winter mornings to the prairie school dream wherein we floated. A messenger brought news of release soon ahead, and the surface of the water had snakes ("amphibia" in the dream language) floating past. "Are they dead?" "All but one, as it's supposed to be," and just then the live one skimmed by and struck me. With my reptilian eyes (which one has pyramids?) and from the balcony twenty-four floors up, I see pictures of me who ages and and pictures of me age too. You can also use three things I learned from him. Occupation: singing harmony forever, dawn to death atop one's thick lungs, familiar as nostalgia with friends. I don't like fighting and don't want to remember that winter afternoon the owl-young old short thin black man I gave a cigarette fifteen minutes ago (4:30 a.m.) on the public lawn and a block away I see a man, young in tie and jacket swinging, screaming harmony. Every utterance and creation knows these: a journey, a dream, colloquialism, a sea and salt and bittersweet drowning, fire, rhyme, a love interest, cluttered rooms. The mating of dogs is violent. Blood blood hot water. I don't remember playing tent with neighbors and things were never the same words equal poetry but now constitute mush. The flow is dependent on (Why invite? accept?) dissonance. Don't look don't touch I don't want to recall this century sags its head, words from the heart of the cliff laymen laid into this relic road red and green and brown and rust. I'm here to descry, admire these things worthy of paeons, deserving eulogies better, unavoidable autobiography. Tongue sex atingle, the eyes of the knees weak. But overhead bombers from the Air Force Base, a real place in a schizo world, schizo times. In star-filled water, I had no raft.
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