kari edwards


I wake up asleep, now
coming below
the Mason-Dixon line
stranger than strange
on a subterranean mass transient
calling language
the language line
committing, omitting, submitting
my collective guilt for all sins
or whatever it is called
the bridge not finished
that usual warehouse feel
everything beige
can not tell the difference
from wawa shade grown
holiday spas
or where I go to get my
breakfast burrito like everyone else
classless prepackaged
and not like those
debt hieroglyphs
scrap heap politician
burrowing in production
painting metaphors
for prewar
shallow creeks
with mercury poisoning
abandoned to loading docks
door prize
all well meaning
track homes

but I must live live, though I have died twice

Personal acts of resistance are the words I wanted to use. Turn the
flesh inside out, ripped apart to remains, damp clods of earth, laid
well away from the overworked, well groomed furniture store's breeding
multiples. Let immovable resolve implode on bended knees while the
millions sharpen their hearing of slaughter and decay gets covered by
the fattened crust of neglect. Hear the fertile black silence mourn
the dead. Know there is no trumpeting finally, only the struggle to
remember to struggle, discarding the utopian ideal, that died begging
for release on placebos alter ego's altar, begging for respect in the
symbolic horizon's florescent glow.

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