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EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD
she said
I dreamt
the moon
(thin golden leaves
of grass in the wind)
here's where my
breath stopped—
became
air again,
I made her
a necklace of
paperclips, after
(after the harvest,
after the blue waves)
she said I dreamt the moon,
I may as well drown
in this beautiful sea.
EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD
(pt. 2)
if you ask,
i'll make you
a dress of
dandelions, goldenrod then
white, then nothing—
i dreamt that
a raven ate
a Pringle, black
wing flown past
my face and
then the Moon
was gone—hidden
by the jealous
stars, their secret
snowfalls cast down
as the light
they shed, but
the Moon was
still gone, and
without it the
sky seemed so
fragile.
EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD
(III)
if it were just the shadow of the moon
that fell,
how many apples would remain?
have we forgotten all the roads that
went nowhere,
or only ghosts know the song that is
stuck in your head?
when the stars slipped away, was it
downstairs for a cigarette,
did we leave the lights turned on, or
has the moon returned
to watch our television?
EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD
(four)
a year of silence
from the North
where your idol
stands, plaid and
enormous, axe in
hand, and you go
on without poetry;
since all our small
betrayals and unkind-
nesses overflowed
the basket you made
of your dress for
picking wildberries,
and we don't know
how to ask for for-
giveness in Morse
code, in telepathy,
by the North Star—
but the end of the
world is coming, and
some of us would like
to say 'Hello', one last
time.
EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD
(V) or THE BLACK SHIPS IN THE SKY THEY'VE BUILT
i only have other people's
endings, i cannot find my
own—i must rely on a
thrumming bacterial sun,
the tar black sky harbors
of babylon, the silhouettes
of friends leaving billiard
clubs and vanishing into
the world.
EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD
(version sicks)
i'll descend to the pit
of my stomach, then
up north to the mine
of myself, to dig out
quarters to pay for
laundry, dressed in
my warm coat of canary
feathers, golden outside,
but still crimson inside,
like the wide smiles of
the children who come
each night to steal my
fingers, hors d'œuvre
before they devour the
Moon... and if the end
of the world doesn't
arrive, i will have no
way to make it to to-
morrow.
EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD
(seventh)
has the world ended?
my words are already
dusty and unread, i've
counted all the bones
of my friends, their arms
light like the wings of
birds, their feathers
scattered along the road
we had been walking,
before the end, if it was
the end.
:;:
the end.
EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD
(PART EIGHT)
unslouch your none-
too-gentle gyre, slough
off any of your burdensome
yestermorns, the broken lead
of an undesked pencil, chasms
gnawed into a disposable pen—
:;:
there is always another heavenly
façade under construction, obscured
behind all those sunfaded signs
promising the imminent arrival of
the “coming soon”, the faster food,
the I-am or the iamb or at least
convenience.
EVERYDAY MUST BE THE END OF THE WORLD
(nein)
your tooth ring, lest night's unsung
stars far in, fall entrance, a gasp
gawk, the asp halting, coiling be—
neath the rents in the sky, bright
and broken
into, the day hove, creaking,
specks of tongues, what bumps,
beckoning plastic, for hoarse
drifting south, Jesse can you hear
me?
now und since, the
clouds clutter
an un one, unwoken
sky, too blue
to pigment, pixels
graven over un—
til we tear and
tear and tear, sand
a way
the bright and let
in an and.
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