SO WE GOT THREE THINGS GOING. WE GOT SOME GRAPE JELLY,
SOME HOMINY GRITS, AND AN EXTENSION CORD. Frequently people be impressed with some shit that I did that isn’t impressive For three hours a week, my nana in her usher uniform People like to fabricate nouns so white you can’t work in them No one rouged her cheek, none ran her or her stockings Like publishing Or stepped on her tennis shoes, sweated her lapel A cloth I have to launder once I wipe my face has no stamina Her man was dead or not your business I come to the table up, washed like I already ate, painted like I already slaughtered Baking soda somewhere seething among my bequests Frequently people mean to look like (that’s they) money Framed by a wicker-back I’m spooning Bleach and black share an etymological base sugar sheer as pestled glass from stainless Spent hours cleaning out, daydreaming cresting waves Stayed knives of a starched collar, whole moons stuck in the lobes of By the time we make love I’m exhausted and starving A stunning lover A contrived still life Who fingers cherry entrails With hive of muscadines While two thick peaches cleave to their pits And six-piece bone china set A set designed Daisies spectate from a standing planter box Xs and checkers of decadence rebranded as evident style suggest Sprays of metal petals, unwilting color happens at crossings Madam, I came with the house If you burnished all this we’d have a different conversation I mean shit I could go with it, too AND I LOATHED MY BEAUTY FOR THAT. this was always sposed to be a story of carnage. copper stripped from a basement. walls barged down the river, ruddy as the stain on the sister’s seat. [1] that day in the rain & the frame still smoking. in the chainlink fence’s revenge, it split her sole. rust grit & brick dust gripped in her prints. brush hisses in dense brown hush. horseshoe kicks what you tryna say (trap shut.) into snowbank the cricket twinkle renders. bring in the big evening. in its black continuity, we are outnumbered & maneuvered by memory. her beauty excruciates, emphasizes the cardinally directed reflections affixed to Marlene Clark’s face. we stop the motion of molten metal & beg it, frozen, reveal us intrinsically. the child born (e.g., Rosso), as creation, is a solicited solidification of interior crisis, a temporary & meaningful clot. someone chooses ruin for the wood. from that shot to this, both a cross cut & rip cut in which classical sculpture is an anachronism & a parallel becoming: [2] grave(n) woman / “wonderful girl.” “barbie doll,” the father calls the mother’s portrait: blush background, collarbones, curls, tinted lip. easy, the sands of his pharynx romance: waterfall, rose furls, cinnamon stick. this blood coupling’s a because of me, its symmetry & fuckery. thou art with me & once fine & ordinarily poured your good years into systems of profit, piecemeal pocket- booking stolen feed. grief, grief, relentless thrift. you suffocating burgundy apology. ----------------------- [1] What does it mean to me to be firstborn versus the first conceived? Little kidneys. I coax my fuel out of roasted beans. Often I write like a fossil, meatless & downplaying what died to get it done. [2] Gunn blackens “Western” time, or Gunn restores flux to the Real amid a fabrication of narrative etiology.
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