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furniture in the afterlife

is dated and is

not ergonomic. everyone

hovers so it's ok.

there are no

castles in America.

and it is true that

nothing new shall

ever be created.

that everything that

will ever exist

already exists in

another form.

this painting bearing

savory harvest brush

in my mental landscape

is only commodified

earth, tones and scent

and thickness from

synthesized or unsynthesized,

but bred from ground.

5 by 5, all day long,

i know this.

 

confidence is easy

without risk,

very paradise.

i rang the midi

bell and it cannot

be unrung.

but this is

not rocksteady.

frequency warbles,

lenses whir.

hyperblossoming, life

itself is not entertaining

enough for me.

my wealth of

sexual store credit.

the highest owed

to me – shit –

heavens –  let’s not

devolve into superlatives

and hyperbole.

​

so within reach of a

quartz quarry, unheavy

glass bricks tango'd,

and i laughed

even when one

thrust the other

into the mountainface.

threatenized by the

spectacle of sameness,

of this partnership:

an ever-cracking glacier.

best to rid it.

unburden yourself from

cloud nine. there's a tenth cloud. it is on a pedestal

right behind me.

on it sits:

"i don’t know you."

zip your defensive

tent back up.

 

a fake muse onrushing,

and trying to separate

a fool from his dollars, prescribes me an app.

this aggregates the

stages and glories

of me into a

rectangle with gloss.

just as the

ground is broken

and crunched into

vibrant, pliable doses.

there is a painting,

and there is

a painting painting.

go pound salt

if you’re addicted

to the struggle.

the June gloom.

raise a barn

or something.

​

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