27 Jul 2014, 9:20am
Writing
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Celestial abattoir silkscreen

Botswana lover
Calendar entropy
Needle engine

My nightmare is a body I can’t push
I push to the ceiling though
I push my wheelbarrow to the trap door and I dump my body out

I push the gasoline lawn mower around and around
In a zombie striped t-shirt
It has four wheels
More stable
It is a hot June day and the sun is muggy
Like a goat
Clouds are overhanging overblown
Stupid me walking around and around
Trying to recite lines to memorialize

*

I got out the wheelchair armchair weedeater and my two arms
I strapped on the weedeater
I like that
Sheen on my wrists
Clearing blackberry briars of other briars
Feeling the pricks getting lost in the woods the work
Everything on my back
Down to a swishing motion

Do you know if you plant English ivy it will eat your entire family
Same as kudzu
It is not cute

I had gotten so far with history
Like a big dumb mule plow
But that is not how angels operate
They are elegant scythe workers
They work on big dumb blowsy pillows
They kill us in sleep

I wanted that big mansion
Like a meditation
We used to drive by that and I would wonder
Who owns that
Now everybody has a house like that
Every body is a principal

I’m just a regular people
Who can’t remember my nightmare

*

Amarillo, it stinks
The cows are blown in the wind
And the Dust is their dung
Who would want to live in that fucking place

And that is a problem
Only so many good places

I pinky swear, if I ever find another good one
I will just stop and get out

And that is a trouble
My nightmare is A capital a decapitated headless animal cow

I De-elevate
I Push to that ceiling
I dump the body
I go back

I am a man of my word
But it feels like yard work
Barrow after barrow of word stuck in the mulch
It leaves a bitterish taste
I have seven yards of it
To work all summer

Those loins will soak you anyways

*

I was Burt Reynolds
Who were you
I bought that house you looked at
With my Smokey and the Bandit money
You liked Deliverance better
Well fuck you then
Hillbillies and chainsaws
That’s what we have to work with

I looked at the fell tree all spring and I subdivided it
With my eye
Little sections they would come out
Split up
To be cord wood for the winter
I am waiting on cooler weather
I won’t run that thing at night
It’s the wrong tool
I can’t Chisel it, cut, blend it in to where it fits me
Yet I can look forward to it

That is an Interesting ladder
Holy holy
I would find a Famous man dead in my backyard
Sew him up in a suitcase for the trouble

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