the coast

embrace my blistered fingers that combed seashores

and never felt the ocean

smile into my eyes that gaze into the future

and see so little


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a spider lonely

I wake up everymorning early it isn’t daybreak I get out

I walk to work I get out my tools I set to work

It’s daybreak I walk back and forth I dangle and spin

I spin my web it’s connected to the work area I work

I wake up everymorning and get out my tools I wake up

Everymorning and spin death into the world everymorning

I wake up it’s death into the world I spin it isn’t

Daybreak I walk death back to daybreak its work

I wake up everymorning and work

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Terse pg 14

The 14th page of TERSE

Terse pg 14

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illusion and the dust drop

we offer you this bag, good sir,

of illusion

simply slit ‘er open

and find your eyesight broken

i see:

a trickle of dust on my upper arm. It spreads slowly, steadily.

It reaches my elbow.


Consults its compass


Sliding along the rivers of my obtrusive veins, downward, until

My wrist is reached






And then my wrist opens

And in slides the dust. Down into my hand Seep into fingertips Compromise blood cells.

Then back up my arm wrap around my neck suffocate my skull drop into my heart fill up my lungs plunge into my stomach engorge every inch of intestine.


Which leg to take?

It chooses right

And a dust drip fills me up

a dust drip weighs me down

a dust drip lays me on the ground

Then I knit myself together at the wrist and pretend to find the will to move

Ohnosotired. These legs just aren’t worth the effort.

Close my eyes with choked retinas

Cough the slight tickle in my throat away.

Dear tongue, learn better to control yourself.

Later men come with knives and scalpels and promise to open me up and drain me out.

To cut my wrist and stab my arm and poke my heart and pump some new blood

Into my dusty frame.

But then I heard the news.

You just can’t have a body of dust mixed with a body of blood.


Consult the compass

Do we take this illusion? It works. We don’t move. We don’t think. We don’t even feel

that dust being pumped all inside.

But look at us! We’ve got this dust, see it drip?



it could coat a thousand books

Then think of all the knowledge we could cover!

All the time we could waste!

All the history we could smother!

But look at us! We’ve got this dust, see it drip—wait

I thought I sewed that up?


Suddenly I’m frightened about this dust, about this wrist, and the way that drip

gives the illusion

of never quitting.

When I woke I was cold.

I lay.


When I arose (I arose!) i was thrilled to see my skin was made of bark.

Just look at all this bark! (I thought). We can do things with this. We’re going places!

This illusion isn’t fading.

Just look at that wrist! There isn’t a drippy-damn-drop of dust in that stitch!

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a Young Man standing on the sidewalk

a Young Man pg. 15

a Young Man pg. 15

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the river

on the banks of the Euphrates

a small reason to laugh

one man dreams

a child singing of his redemption

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creating alphabets

if God created us, we are simply one long sentence
because if i remember correctly
in the beginning
there was the word
and the word was God
and with God

and then later, God spoke
took what was Him
and shot it out to see what would happen
created a few people in his image
possibly possessing a shorter alphabet
but still potential
for provocative interpretation

ever since we’ve just been writing
wringing every last letter for its meaning
creating and destroying our sentences
“a letter to every piece of flesh!” they cry,

every piece of flesh to its Maker

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