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Send My Roots Rain Then the earth — its birds and verdure bored me, bore into me . . . I looked into calculated distances — called them you, you who bring out the white-boy stiff in me, broken down straggler on Jericho Turnpike in me. There’s McDonald’s, there’s Wendy’s, the boarded hulk of the roller rink, center of excessive kissing, cherry scented lipgloss — Jordache and Calvin Klein — room robbed of oxygen — pressured submarine plunge; — and the bends. 24 Transmissions whining, boys in monster trucks spewing up the beach . . . Electric guitars hijack the darkness. Night upon night I have walked — thatched briar and thistle-whipped and everywhere there is not an amber field. Everywhere the sun consumed, surf hissing behind the scenes, heavy metal in the parking lot — 25 In the first conception of hell I travel the round earth’s flat orthodoxy — scrub oak and pitch pine — scrawny deer some hunters left to its own devices — to take the lie of lime and die on fastidious lawns of the fashionable. They’re having a lawn party — the man from the Times on hand — they’re decked out in summer whites and Canada geese take the invitation that wasn’t given — it’s all scat and skidaddle — piss and moan and wings into the infra-red sunset, my dear infra-human, I 26 Say goodbye to the rearranging waters, say you to atmospheric contingencies — the dark — the darker — institutions of cruelty; people never but machinery always and ever onward — alien-eyed tractor in a fog — somebody’s driving, nobody’s in charge. Rain in mud, sloppy mouths — sucking sounds of ten thousand steps, and nobody walking where the sun would unclothe itself . . . The lick the linger in the undergrowth, the animal lurking the animal wants out. 27 In the umpteenth conception of hell . . . In a desert of the east . . . seven years of plenty followed by seven years of the sun’s redundancy . . . There comes a time to come undone, to come and go in a single breath. To brave the green-filmed water, drift in pungent chemical decay past eelgrass edged periphery — broken glass screeching tires — There comes a time to enter the world without you, without hope, and love the things not loving back. 28 ...

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