Switchpole lies in three-four time. Fluorescent backing
the agents of destruction. The angels we have heard
while high; the demons we never knew. Inside the stagehand’s
mind. What callouses are these, what wrinkles?
I dreamed the death of a president, an assassin’s
passion. Eavesdrop on this, dear ol’ Dad:
We stand above an empty grave, signing
Wish You Were Here. No one writes
protest signs on this mission, and the peace pole
is a stake through your vampire heart—the garlic braid
unravels. How far I’ve traveled just to find you
tucked into my luggage. I shed
such baggage, your skin
sloughing off in my
claw.


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Posted by: jMGwen | December 26, 2009 at 04:30 PM