[Blue Bed, Yves Tanguy]


–mickey morgn

Cross mats meet my view.

They rush to assault in their twisted, broken-down lives,

to do I don’t know what. Hair

tangled and dirty like the dirty girl of the street,

huddling atop the air vent over the subway. Cracked at the base,

life wracked in the open air, continues at the root,

but for how long? The hills are scabby growths,

their itches ignored. Who cares that they judge us?

We, trash heaps pushed aside for a new load,

we, current droppings of houses patched together

at hills’ foot. The murk of the ravaged hill stares

at me lifeless as a broken arm, passsive, flung wth

the breeze. There’s no telling where it might twist. It

could fly off and and the town would wizen to a

wrinkled amputee, the lost arm not even retrieved.

Sew it back on? Why bother? It gangrened long

ago and is useless. Death is here to stay.

It is your neighbor, and mine. Only to look up to the hills

and see God’s curse on us. We live sanctioned

by ravaged snaps of spines, spindled to toothpicks,

shoved to the bottom of the holler

imprisoned in whorled woods, shackled lke shabby strays

from the main pack. And we hail our neighbors

every day like some terrible family, its special breed

of disease. I have been unhappy here.


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