Monday, July 02, 2007

Matthew Burkett


she was a one hole story
a barhopped lamb with wax on her earrings
misspent sunglasses on the glass of an endtable
that only reflected nosehairs and oily pores.
she wound up dead
every time I touched her.

lamps with no lightbulbs, tables with dirty napkins--
all pink eyes, smokestained lips,
a white map charted on her stomach
where she left room for retaliation.

naked, she asked me to paint her
make her face blue
let her see what she's like inside
let her feel the things that drown but never float
back up.

I said nah.


this is the age of the bodily compromise,
the gradual ceding of temperament
to entities of fiction and purpose,
the age of the first step of becoming a cyborg
the age of the return of phrenology
the age of dotdotdot someone-or-something will
complete it--
of course the age of debt. citizens are numbered
like only soldiers and prisoners have been in the
well-irrigated obsolescence, forbearance, etc.

Matthew Burkett Julie Clark Deidre Elizabeth Mario Melendez Patrick Frank

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