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    on the 5ives



dropping away below them
and beyond, moving
towards separateness,
a longing that could cripple,
in search of a dwelling, a human
body function and its allowed
and balance, dispossessed,
usurped, just a swallow away,
here we come, sometimes inflamed
and dying, stuck inside the crevices,
such barely-contained experience,
this caution exactly to the brim,
trousers glistening with fluid,
the name of a disease at night over invisible
waters and their ability to multiply, drunkards
against their will allowing language
to perpetuate intonation, by alteration,
blood-letting, allowing skin reveals the carcass,
spreading out into stones of the moderns, and
plagues of all kinds walking with me,
honey by the spoonful

Flag Day

combine yourself & jump in, wipe that
racial memory, youíre changing spark
plugs & the garage is a long way down
the road & closed anyway, itís sunday
television sunday here in a small town
full of young volunteer firemen & your
motherís loose inside your head again
but theyíll get her, that old hook-and-
ladder kind of sunday afternoon kind
of feeling, like they always say


we live here caught in the tight cup of it, this is
one brown beast-loviní mother of a fix weíre in
Iíd say, at least it looks that way to me, pinched
into my slanted-head-position-kind-of perspective
I have on it anyways, but still & all I believe
that itís just it, in a tight and lazy type of bear-trap type of
sawing on the brain Iím carrying with me, the one I use
to put my papers in, so to speak, when Iím travelling
as I seem to be doing now, although I have to say everything
seems to be following with an equal momentum & trajectory:
the brown bear, the tightwad kind of lump I always step on
or wear, the trap, the slant, the cup and above all the tight
quality of it and all the rest of it that seems to be following
me so close that it looks like Iím not travelling at all
but I am, itís just (I think) that Iím overly-prepared
for this journey, which I somehow now suspect
will be much shorter than the one I planned on.


bull moon over manhattan, events
separated by distant swells alight
all tuned to posture, twirls, smoke
primps their maleness in the wind chain
reaction imposes solution, allure, ore
the lack, digressive, so many many men
so little crime in tight dark rows in order
to be noticed behind the enlarging
full of a sparkling night
coarse, scarcely rhythmic
innate composure


four poems

scott macleod