(for Chelsea, with love)
Boxes growing, killing sky.
Boxes growing, killing sky.
Friends walled in,
time bubble babies,
watching wireless tower trees split the green.
Among the boxes of people, I see turn of the century houses (grand old ladies) and '20s era apartment buildings (dapper male queens),
like where a dear friend lives. I was just with her there, we
sat in the courtyard in a swirl of cats on a picnic bench
that was giving up its split wood ghost, slowly.
time bubble babies,
watching wireless tower trees split the green.
Among the boxes of people, I see turn of the century houses (grand old ladies) and '20s era apartment buildings (dapper male queens),
like where a dear friend lives. I was just with her there, we
sat in the courtyard in a swirl of cats on a picnic bench
that was giving up its split wood ghost, slowly.
She sits in this courtyard often, and
writes, shaping the molecular and subatomic structures of novels and
poems, whispering her words to herself, and sipping her tea.
Later, she told me, “I dreamed about
a pile of mewing cats covering my feet.”
This is her landscape.
The bald apes who build boxes were born to steal the sky.
Boxes fucking, corners groping corners,
The bald apes who build boxes were born to steal the sky.
Boxes fucking, corners groping corners,
buttressed tectonic plates below
slipping against each other, teeth grinding.
Earth sleeps, oh tired Ol’
Mother.
She dreamed us. And it's almost morning.
She dreamed us. And it's almost morning.
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