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My first language Sent from the almighty
machine Was rust   Acidic in the throat
To the point of disintegration Sour and

Moved the tongue Through the teeth
pushed neon streamers With geriatric
force   I wandered Calcified eels

slipping past chapped lips   Offering
My churning mouth Seeking: A people
to deposit My language Heard of a city,

In the septic breath of night A voiceless
people Seeking: Unformed brick Or tongue
of ancient

jerky I went into the wheat The wheat!
Parting the chaff Oily, cables Strung about
my fingers But there were no cities
In the wheat

No blind No lame Only the lichened flesh
Of the machine


the 3D printed moon on the hotel roof is the only moon performing tonight & the writers take us to the bar
to prove they have fun at times I believe this is all that’s happened to me driven to a barstool by someone
who’s now on an infinite bathroom break idk how to order wine the bartender flirts w/ a cocktail shaker &
an aggressively outlined blue lip I think I can feel the wind from here but that’s just the usual dumb we’re on
the tenth floor & the moon is a spoon gouged spectacle I rip up the menu & a (wo)man beside me bobs to is
that foreigner the whole body semaphoring through a disorganized nod words blowing out like a sheer curtain
moved to action by an industrial fan I think everything is coming into me or has already left & they’re

asking me out to see the roof patio the moon I’ve never been one to attract attention & that statement’s so visible I can’t see any thing else where are the writers a huddle’s formed in the northeast corner they’re solidifying a strategy to trick us into more fun probably I was at the train station all afternoon having gotten on the wrong line then off into the throng of parka-ed  and  scarf-ed  teenagers  to   wait   for

one to reverse me I could leave now trek into the street of no service no cabs no breadcrumbs could downsize the mean-time throw cake at the wall with degenerates huff paint in the alley then side-track and remodel the  exterior   should   I  get   that  number  call

you  tomorrow  I’ll  see  a  bird  wrestle  with  a

piece of  bread in the middle of the highway if 

I feel a  pressure it’s the  constant pressure  will

see  the arch  the library  the historic district all

through a haze of insect guts tomorrow a folk

band  sings  digging  in  the  dirt  ‘til I can’t no 

more on public radio & the bodies in the car croon along until satisfied in the bar the drinks

glow blue I can only see so far under the strobe it’s 12:02 I’m sick of the moon

return to ISSUE ONE

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