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POEM: Building Inspection


There’s holes in your face, not only for breathing
holes in your face, and no regard for innocent life,
breaks in the wall and space left for eyes
drains in the earth and legs bending backwards

Your arms break back,
your car turns organic,
and sky balls churn in butter thick black soup to nuts.

Who’s on the roof, peg-legging across the balcony?
There’s tiles untracking and waffling fiberglass splinters!

Who’s skating the sky, bringing down streamers?

Something is wrong with this building.
Spiders come down at odd times of the day,
during conference calls and one-on-ones.
Recluse spiders with death threats and open tapes.

At this rate, no company wants to rent the second floor.

You can throw a football across the room and not hit anything.

What a sad night. A sad night.

There’s holes in your face, not only for eating,
holes in your face, and disassociated familiars and principles,
cracks in the foundation and open faults for beams,
stakes in the sand, pulling gently out.

Waves bring home bottles of nothing,
open plastic conscience shells
to waste upon the breaks. Foam can kill you
as jellyfish lovers tease your knees,
the fancy dance of bitter bread.

There’s holes in your face, and you can’t see for seeing,
The odorless gas of surveillance gifts,
The odd click of your punch card in slits,
The smiling nod of your security grits,
And the predicated end of your solitary fires.

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