Linked for What can Never Be a Single Art

Stars are fortunate
misses on the revolving
circular target of

the knife thrower
and trusting female
there strapped, who

knows it's all a simple
trick that everyone will
pay to be shocked at,

in constant display
along the boardwalk
in Atlantic City,

so prudent it is
to recognize that
the blood pouring

from evening sky at
dusk comes instead from
birds of praise

and paradise
that are in process
of being born. The sun

is an infection of
happiness that rises
from the depressed

familial relations
in the thighs of whose
children will make

nothing but playing
hooky by instinct, in
favor of developing

inability to discriminate
whether between coins
they'll always have few of

will supposed to be
called 'her' or 'him.'
The streets are paved

with heat enough for
what you ain't got a name
for, adolescence, or desire

for what you refuse
to make yourself from,
never to take this world

cheap, which will hit
its mark with every try,
to wound a body not

one's own, from ignorance,
target that one's life so
small one cannot help

but hit it, or be in body, seen 
by others, in shame I mean not, 
can't keep out with mind, 

in difference between publication, 
death which is naught, 
and 'seeing as believing,' 

languageless, where perceived, 
is irreversible, and fully 
present everywhere, scared 

shitless to be seen that in 
for imagination searching, are 
alone with everything you know.
 



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