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A S E R I E S O F E A R N E S T O F F E R S , F O R T H E R A I S I N G O F A M A N F R O M T H E D E A D Being human, I have ingredients enough. Breathmints, rouge, a thimble of sperm, a pocket of nail pairings, a phone bill for each of your dead cells to pay. Oceanic strivings, hunger in the provinces, riots in the bars, and love, if you continue to lie so still and boring underground, not even the dampness will eat you. What does God have that I don’t have besides you? Daily the poets make their stupid surmises and the goddamned green grass is green since you’ve gone. Is it true you were tucked-up wearing cardboard shoes? Take my hiking boots, it’s a long way back, and for a passport,  Barresi pages:Layout 1 5/12/10 1:43 PM Page 27 your report card for failed penmanship in the second grade. Remember the pranks, the prime numbers we used to pull— “Meet me at the Lobster House at eight”? Well, the phone in the earth is ringing: it’s for you. Can’t you hear it in your deadest bones? (I might as well be God for all the help I get from you, the grief I take). Come forth! If it is a new blue suit you need not wormed to bandages, I’ll buy you one, and a nurse made of sugar to lick. I’ll take you to the marketplace of worry and get you a new face. Pretty please? To close this deal and open your hard case, I’m begging, or come as you are. My life’s ownership is signed in a dead hand, friend, this green annihilation where I wait. Come back in pieces, dragging your feet. Honey, I’ll give you my parking space.  Barresi pages:Layout 1 5/12/10 1:43 PM Page 28 ...

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