When you move and live in the
spaces between large bodies
your stress, your casualty,
your breakdown, your disfigurement,
your death
will be accepted
as necessary
as expectation
as collateral damage
as the breaking of eggs
for an omelette.

Afterward, the agents of large bodies will
sweep your scattered bits onto shovels
into dustbins,
splash your blood from the concrete
with hot water and ammonia,
reface the pocked limestone,
apply fresh paint,
plant flowers.

The magic of broom, bucket, brush and trowel
will make it appear as though nothing
untoward had ever occurred here.


Every massacre does not find itself on
television, magazine, newspaper, media Broadways.
In fact, most play on the interstitial stages
between large bodies.
They close to a chorus of crickets
and settle into a tortured, anonymous future.

I wanted to spin these threads of ugliness
into a fine and redemptive silk.

Instead, I discovered the impotence of my magic
when applied to cauldrons of lead.

Indeed, I am more alchemist than scientist.
My art is dead. Indifferent empiricism and
cruel numbers survive and blossom.


Beliefs are hollow wooden horses.
Beliefs are viral.
Beliefs are pedophiles with candy.
Beliefs are gangrene and cancer.
Beliefs are sedation and murder sold as cure.
Beliefs are hatred parading as conviction.
Beliefs are trained in the art of vanishing.
Beliefs are taught to re-deploy on cue.
Beliefs are stalking you now.

The paint,
the sidewalks,
the stone will shine.
Flowers will bloom.

As if
nothing untoward
had ever
happened here.



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