maybe I am saying too much?
are sacrifices so private after all?
taking out the trash even becoming, belonging fuel
burnogogic
making us again a landscape at the landfill
like the beer cans in the novel's
character’s kitchen
my house is a novel, an apology
the history of atlanta is the object
transferred however many times
I will a braided lock of blond hair faded to silver-brown
a clove cigarette tin to stay closed
mem
the ness
of longing
spelled out you
I went into that letter the store the sign that it lives on
and split
up
this is recent and local history used as fuel
dear split up,
can you remember when you forgot why that thing had existed for however long in a junk drawer?
or
how did contributing trash make you think of the rest of the pile?
or
if it will not burn how then is it fuel?
or
have your incindiary regards been out of your possession at any time since arriving at the burning?
dear split up,
save yourself, the house is around us, the corner, the street,
the local—seeds of it devoured under the name of fuel. which
if you think about it is kinda like capitalism sitting on the back of
a small rent-a-cop investigating the underside of a floating island
that calls itself normal functioning.
I'll see you the abysmals.
muah!
p.s. too BE is NO go, so BE a yo-yo!
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