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One of those voices was biologically female and it said,
Put your hand under my mouth,
but don’t nuzzle me with your bulldozer the color of Easter.
When a man with rough skin starts undressing himself,
he may warble
like a fountain, or brides—
I watched the sides of his mouth quiver in what could only be
described as a gesture of panic.
Was his torso so gilded in birch leaves? Were his nipples excited
by fall? I don’t remember
the name of your friend from Montreal,
but I’m sure bugs don’t bother him much up there
as they hear the blood pulse through his sweater and tiny scarf.
One does think about bodily delight—
And that makes the tongue burn towards an earlobe,
then the low or soft shoulder beckons,
and I’m back at your starting point, which you were right to call
chiseled across our hayfield.
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How would I know / when I’m empty and quiet like breath?
Historian Gerald Horne has developed a grand theory of U.S. history as a series of devastating backlashes to progress—right down to the present day.
Reflecting on three monumental works of modernism—James Joyce’s Ulysses, T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, and Ludwig Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus—a hundred years on.