he writes
by Cara Benson

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reassignments. Like any other factory
Babylon town is who I most fear

Perhaps some Grace
Next to my own
pro bono bagels
but I consider play to be

que paso? que hay?
secret eternity of America’s hatred let’s begin again After tonight?
between 1977 and 1978 “September 1961”
an intense faith in humankind

The ideal of being thin peeking out from a stack of photocopies

‘wobbly on his pins’
(too smart to step into the death dance)

the people of the world happy he’s alive
blink a tearful eye. with the law three-quarters fools,

sky pulsing in aching romance. I am reminded here
discussion on the possibilities, prostitution, and emigration.

He aims not for a completely surface scandal, but Margaret Atwood.
The span of – yes, thank you officer  – airy earth. Some him.

But for the straws to sail, the Wilson Administration (humph!) abuse the impunity their bull engendereth.

He might snap ol’ crow of a lifetime. The structures of interior history lectures how
the legacy rise in stereo utopian Berkeley. Yuh to a stranger through engine as a sock subterranean links.

to think about
what’s that up ahead?

foetid forest, the report familiar, anonymous with deadly religion.

In the air nestled between us, “Now comes the poet”, he writes. unequivocally refuse the sea And whales and wolves. in the bath no shower they strip a systematic war as thoroughly as his children.

The Rock to ashes. – he said he was gonna uncover something.

     a criminal or something

Earth coming later. no one
but of course and barns

little Africas
The Drought
The Philosophy

of a shape, relinquish

their lives

The NON-

do not fall for the romance of sure, you got that

fractured light to de English life!

for Jailbirds. role-pattern
named after the Yahi Indians

And this seems to me an extremely important echoing.

                                                                        these tumbling towers arise?

marching band’s train Across the week my historical Mr.
past car windows for similar money. lowers again. the critical Cities

remnants of the forgotten poetry

The Nausea

under cement laughing I heard the men talk to praise the first fucked up night.

you Santa Claus admitting

because of devotion my hand, imagining
with him it, and our foot path Of

The Boot

I did What for Persuasion
shouldered fussing boredom

as it is

others themselves
when you go observing
who verges on
so busy fighting

miss too smart

from its walls recovered, my mistress on the driveway
the company campaign of explosions

uncles Donald Davie to oversee the DOC

what my hand
if he’s simmering
to get uselesseness

swarms of love

The Octopus

if I could smell his dress-suit countering men and potential wind

manufacturers, Indonesian

dislike such democratic laureate from 1975 at men fighting
                                                                                    where he perched on

still it notice dat him answer I know he’s innocent

so Sylvia Tired of the loins

Baseball plaer (b. 1916)