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Four Poems photo

la tienda, or, the earth, fertile with nettles and

vegetables, bringing forth these meager

cypresses, this black damp that stains the



words fall off the curl of nothing

I am involved in them --

the buildings --

against myself I am

the store

the fetid nights cannibalizing each other

cries tumble out, taut

the debris of a revolution we want but can’t have

it’s hard to have the fervor 24 hours a day

there’s a culmination and a release

like hunger like


Madeline Gins worked on an architecture

that wants to make dying illegal

with roundness instead of corners
because that’s how the revolution must be


There is something called
The Reversible Destiny Foundation
You can write to them
If you want
To help reverse your destiny.
If you don’t want
To pawn away your life
But rather to, say, preserve
I would say
Leave amerikkka
If you can
Abandon ship for the pleasure of a wave.


     so-called pinocchio
drunk on      discipline

“It’s not like May, this impure air
Spilling a mortal peace, estranged from
our destinies,
between the ancient walls, autumnal
May. In this the grey of the world,
the end of the decade in which appears
among ruins the profound, ingenuous
effort to restore life over;
the silence, rotten and barren...
You were young, in that May when
the error was still life.”


(does the poem help?      really?

time, a slack mammal

like sloth, a curious metabolism

and deeply unconcerned with eschatology

rich people time, poor people time)

we look to poetry and what do we find

a house


in which hoping is not safe and dying

is still quite legal.

Encouraged, actually.

An architecture of trying to remember

how it was, being together, but

forgetting. The material would be,

I dunno, water.      A debt

so old that it looks new

“What the president will say and do!!:
Place all systems face down
Make all birds wear veils to look more mysterious.”

Madeline Gins wrote that
“TransP” is short for “transformatory power”

a title for

an unpublished monument 

but you know what

linear conceptions of time      are cancelled

starting yesterday

Waiting is trying to end me
We are all ending all the time
We have already all ended all the time.

image: Aaron Burch