I Am As You Are Anything by Mark Sargent |
by Mark Sargent |
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PERMEATION
An engine of mewling words chugged up the steep hill of a day our lives had purchased, stunned pieces of previous places floated ticker-tape down and the sound of instruments splashed over us and purred like a lion with antelope gurgling in its guts, or leopard with a belly full of monkey, a blood glut chant exhaled into her with her cigarette, vision vapor, a kiss in all her dark corners.
“The plan is the body,” quoth she, and I knew that Creeley had already come and gone― need was now, the body had a plan and the heart was in the body and the sound of it tinged deeply, saturate to love’s dew point.
28 March 2004 I am you as you are anything
and obey the rationale of cheap sodas in the morgues of Pittsburgh, warm as roses kept in sardine tins, my mother’s backyard Polish over lines of laundry and steel soot, everything heavier than it looked, crack of cloud, seam of caramel splitting the blue collar dream into unequal parts, we will wear our poet children as epaulets of honor and genetic disturbance; from a great height the urine falls and has been falling since several hours before we crawled from the muck, the golden rain, the trickle-down nectar, power lines dissecting the gray, scoring portions of sky for the atmosphere barons of the future, the smell of your father’s underwear in the cellar you unhitch your parachute and swim half as far as expected not even a fucking merit badge not even one peck on the ass no you’re just handed a helmet and told to be STORK TWO or TOO or II what the fuck does breakdown mean any way? Whitemen coming down the gangplank with the entrails of the crew draped over their necks, fabulous cleavers for hands, spot-on memory dwarves peeking out of their ever-so-pink ears and dog-hair clouds scudding over the contracting docks with shooting gallery monotony— after he falls new legs exit from his armpits and he applies himself to the grater, wee flakes of him falling like pastoral Pasternak on crystal meth bent over the horse of Ataturk, the beast snorts, stirs dirt with hoof, pretends it knows the Pennsylvanian trot and shits without thought.
It’s all airborne briefly. Unison leaps help the planet spin. Weight reduction, picayune thrill, one tomato with the entire works of Stanislav Lubealot carved into the skin. We’re all related.
20 September 2012
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