Monday, March 8, 2010

Miracle Grenade

I am standing next to the solid gold tube.
When I wait for it to speak a religion hurries in,
like a recycled screen, I call the Capitol.
I pose indirectly for a stranger
until I’ve discredited every inch of my body.
The Capitol is not your head. It tells your head
that you have none until it’s gone.
I see the figments of a careless toss.
You toss something in Italy
that lands at my feet. I pick it up.

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