when the poems disappear the dead are assassinated

• Day Two of anticipated Day Sixes above (control whatever up-arrow don't work in this window)
  
• Do not post on blog I know not barking at The Clusterfuck ping-divorces three quarters I wrote in tablet half an hour ago I type this sentence and here I am
• *This* particular damnlessness happens when I bottom in my minor (as in woe is) crashes
• I admit to minor but I am *not* crashing now
• My tablets runneth over (and I'm pleased with the projects and products) (though pleased with projects and products when damnless new too, yay! )
• Reading Marlon James' novel *Black Leopard Red Wolf,* a fantasy novel, me, eating it
• I swear it's the best novel about The Clusterfuck I've
• my damnlessness a spell cast by Sangoma
• Be shit uncanny and clusterfuck deja vu belling and it pings (and *shuts* the fuck up (my bark) me)
• Sadogo, sad Ogo, lordy. Smart buffalo. Smoke Girl
• Half still here after 3/4ths quit when I quit aggregating aargh quit when I post my poems
• The day I quit worrying the pings the day these posts continue
• Richard Butler is 63 today!

 



POEM #1022

Daniel Borzutzky

There is not much excess
and what there is is barely perceptible
the blank ones disappear from our vision
no one notices until
there is a dramatic decrease in surplus value
                     
the war is born
and the blank ones disappear again
but really their disappearance is subjective
some see no one
while others see everyone
                       
for some the extermination of the cancer
is inseparable from the decreation of the city
others associate the decreation
with an unstoppable flow of leakage
while others associate the decreation
with falling rates of profit
and the barely perceptible
appearance of the human body
                    
out of the dead refugee sprouts
a breathing poem
                    
out of the dead soldier sprouts
a breathing poem
                      
out of the dead city sprouts
a breathing poem
                 
but when the city disappears
so do the poems
                   
and when the poems disappear
the dead are assassinated
               
picture a heart covered in dust
and picture a poem sprouting out of it
             
picture a heart covered in dust
and picture a child chasing it
               
picture a bullet that kills a child
and picture the soldier who tosses the child into the sea
             
the soldier kisses the earth and says
it’s not my fault the people are being born and dying
               
the pastor calls out the names of the children to the congregants        

to each name they respond
dead