Monday, February 3, 2014

[It Comes Back to Where It Comes]

It comes back to where it comes
back. We are fenceless
dogs in shock collars
barking at shadows
on curbs. We have Gortex
shoes, salted meat, Coleman
stoves. Taught to pout
as tot, shout as teen, grumble
but never dissent
as adult. Trained to bless
griefs, doubt joys, trained
to work fields then leave fields
fallow, not fields fallow, me
fallow. Trained to think
my training my own idea.

Because I rattle as drone
louder than castanet I
imagine I have an audience.
Chase! Don’t
slobber. Slobber has never
been more cholera but
in every other narrative.
Babel can be [metaphor
smashed,type out and flash
publish first drafts, don't
worrying confounding
half-assed babble into
coherance] nothing
to do with slobber but everything.

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