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56 1 The plain terms this place a conversation where I reappear can hardly sleep with sirens in the aviary amulets to guard us, parvitude: where the failed anchor of the everyday is a pale-green egg-cup a paring knife a burnt match, is a worm-eaten wooden box a quarter pound of butter an alarm clock. Alone now with these thirteen words that will bring us back into being. Watch where a purple script is the jagged edge over which the drift goes passing, as seen from the shoulder of the highway not far from Oaxaca where it borders with Puebla on the 125, the smell of cowshit and brushfire under the shadow of closing thunderheads over the Mixteca, off the road where we pull and unbutton, your arms in a y to the sun, the dry heat of this mechanical shine and motor running in the dissonant contours or rhythmic five of what I like about your body in bristle and curl, the need to make noise by feet in length releases the kind of content swelling when we touch conclusive the ecstatic cataclysm of the terrifying lull. 57 (Huajuapan • Iturbide) The animal into parts—first slaughtered, in a body, and then butchered, the blood-wet pelts spread out to dry over trampled grass, the intestines hanging from the chain-link fence like the ribbed wings of a certain antediluvian something is the matter with a newborn voice bleating severance in which language fucks me up in the smell of immolated flesh, wet underbrush and mesquite. Slivers of it out to cure from the day before are a stench not a gravity in the air as workaday and somewhere else in the massacres we live with, are a clove of garlic peeled, of Indians by the Spaniards. 2 That she couldn’t sleep at night without slashing her skin as from the age of ten or twelve or else the food she ate would razor steel, would taste of being largely crosses on the surface of an arm, a thigh, near a nipple, into which the full weight of her body now unleashed was flying through the open slit 3 This nightlong rainfall is a hard zipper when the cat’s urine from the carpet is about a house in no specific order, the cracked paint on the ceiling an atrocity in the name of some collective self, and the watermarks recalcitrant to transformation, 58 ever changing, a third of the text to paradise when I one day write the horizon of the plural mind unfolding in the rapid music rebound, and I stutter, it’s a pregnant shining, cast against the walls now, sufficiently warm, and a little juiced, the joy of smoke through the nostril, a final hit, a short unmediated dance or gesture I would never make in public, the ice-click in the glass of lime and beer, the nearly midnight air of June, and nothing severed foremost. Someone coughing. ...


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MARC Record
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