March 2005 / Volume VI / Issue II
Jason A. Wilkinson

Princess lived in a big mansion
shipwrecked
up there on her wall such a good dame
nothing to breathe cement
piled around
lovers moth-stenciled
everywhere her feet
eyes trip–
wire: phantoms to lavish herself w/beneath
the arch of a treeless void copy the princess,
time up there her fingers tensing enervation
dead birds got the symmetry itch, baby
dead birds got the symmetry itch
mark them sprawled among diffident laces
tires earmarked for destruction
gauzed up voice in the way we come unsent making
rivulets of crystalline bells
now it's over now
India Ink w/radios & ice cream
flesh-petals to burn quiet ether negligee
carpet touch now the clock doesn't have to be opened or hung
it just keeps ticking no matter who comes in
somewhere the paper skyline
commingled with appetite
cellophane, a burnt maquillage
to peel back dim spaces
whatever became of the night
whose somnolent throes
left an ashtray upturned?
pabulum and TV
Ford and The Bible
you and I ran out
never wasting a moment never
opening drawers.
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