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That Film About the Poets

Of the one who lived in paris
& made movies about the art world,
living in the pompadour
of stained glass once seen
in architectural digest.

Or the one whose soul was born
In a concentration camp.
Hitler’s worst nightmare of a jew
Who could out-write the nibelungenlied.

Alas, I am too fresh faced.
I must wrinkle for a very long time.
My wheelchair is not enough.
I must be housed in the walls of wood
& oriental runners whispering chinese
Through the walls more meaningful
Than the proverbs of fortune cookies.

This is the monster I wish to become
Secluded in maui, away from the vengeance of naropa
The quiet contemplative turn away from
The ultimate new york city tragedy

Or maybe I’d be a parisian transplant
With my ivy leagued & fulbrighted self,
Singing a song of ghost friends.

If only I were that man,
or born of that woman,
Born of her yoke, caught in a whirlwind
Of love’s small poetic prophesy

As if her hunger was all this and nothing more.
It is then, that she is burned, her skin marked
And glistening as she cherishes this branding
As I cradle my immense sadness,
Sing to it before mocking it, my stillborn child.

The one whose father had invented the exacto knife
Who lives comfortably cambridged in her silence?

Private peach I impede upon
her furry pit hidden inside
the hard bindings of books.
She says she doesn’t want
The ersatz…

This life already happened to me long ago
with glasses in a coffee shop alone…
Far away where I was read by aliens.
So I disappeared.

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