Insurgency
by Dot Devota

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I N S U R G E N C Y  Each twilight someone living misses someone dead and comes around locking our doors from outside.  We hear the key perpetrate us, the room with a trick, works properly against lowered eyes.  If you hear voila! expect failure, the ease in which we applaud success, performance of instructions, corrosion of two elements in your weather gathering thick over the ocean.  We trust the others aesthetic choices, crouching beneath what we know assaulting what we don’t.  A dishrag’s hope, helpful’s mean stepmother, belief meets twice a year to consider applicants, my profanity is preparation. Outdated maps unroll wonderment half the deviled night, reach for the lamp.  Light, a bug bite, swells.





I N S U R G E N C Y  Ingrown hair politics of cacoonism incubates the next ransom.  We broke what we paid for, inserted between sophisticated lore and sophisticated risk management. Doorstep where we are welcomed inside self-endangerment on the property’s else, to some extent a boundless else beyond the fence.  Wherever I stand I am mobile architecture, trees wishing deeper sprawls.  Your roots are skullduggery, part-time perverse invasions, a whole tribe leaves behind artifacts and vengeance keeps us moving. To organize is to disappear. To disappear is bad humor.  We can market what’s invisible but not what’s misplaced, for which there’s no component box.  Unless it’s displaced childhood neglect and you need a petite model.





I N S U R G E N C Y Using butcher props smear makeup across my derogatories and turn me into a lesser known fame.  Treating only what is extracted, abstinence, fuller than absence, crumpling a blank page, spontaneous creases I had been leaking, the surface more purposeful than the service, visibility with underlying process goblins.  Communing and subtracting depends on who breaks whose bones to fit through a lake’s vulnerables.  Was weak to begin, a man who’d never barge into the ladies room though both names sound open the door.





I N S U R G E N C Y   The world we had imagined as something different.  Expectations devised since one enwombed, a balm you were misconceived in since the jewel split, let swim in delusion with lifelong tails.  You believe the pursuit forever standing too close.  Had I been born differently today would have turned out well, with more friends made, challenges able to wrest the demon doll. Scoundrel commodification looking for new markets.
The delusional one is the full-hearted inhabitant, misconceiving baby worlds put up for adoption will have questions even before they are told genetics does not matter.  An idiot asking a valid question in a world that didn’t have to be a world because it was already validated as one, its own, Hall of Fame. Complete with spinning axis, satellites, and stars whose deaths displayed bright energy on our tongues.





I N S U R G E N C Y  The storm cloud is an upside down birthday cake whose candles blew out 12 years ago while the entire family watched.  Birthday, a voice taking place around a table the woman get up to clear.  We have our mother’s super-sonic cry-hearing and our father’s goondom. As a drunk, the faucet drains through a series of mis-impassioned pipes, the literal meaning of which we hear as running water, we assume the source vintriloquizes all other sources.  A coming out comes home and bickers with drowning twice its inheritance. You’re a witness because your birth canal knew otherwise, longings and bitterness, a coat so many sizes too big you dress the winter with it and wait for thanks in other places. Children’s books will be best. Small cabins will be not be kind.  Neither will the cockpits of planes.  Nor a museum’s donation box.





I N S U R G E N C Y  Torn from a storm this canary is wet when it mentions the value of death but not to tell anyone else.  Curtains are a window’s shame. If you could see me I’m wearing moving failures, a walking tour in a war gallery. I step in front of the projector as marines are pulling down the tyrant’s statue. His outstretched arm a telescope. Aims down on the riotous galaxy.     ( C o u n t e r I n s u r g e n c y )  A demigod who hasn’t shown up for breakfast is in Eternal Supper. Real science supporting scripture, an operation of mute malamutes crossing the arctic, large lungs suspended by copper wires.  A prayer found its way in like a good battle gift.  My silence beasts a lifetime in the making are your ghost’s boredom.





I N S U R G E N C Y  It’s like we are hurt and want someone to run to but as adults only ideas are safe-base.  I don’t mean to call your childhood adult scum, your scum is highly educated, the pond beneath ratty clouds who won’t divulge all their acid to keep me away entirely.  But for the sake of burning ticks from our hairline we could be pretending a lifetime in the making, the one I mentioned where ghosts go cross-eyed from all the blah.  Being pleased, a haunted house of dismay.





I N S U R G E N C Y  Day, Fat Ghost, I'm paralyzed again unable to remember what has already been said nearing the lake where I don't believe in ways to say more.  Plastic winds tangle winter orchards back east, what we enjoy about the view is fear screwing a prop on stage.  Curtains raise themselves, expose others tucked in stems of seagulls wading the shallow as a vow minnows jump through, gaunt striped beauty our spectacle and what spectacle will mythologize?  The totem pole, the May pole, any cock through the kelp hung up on coral sputtering from dim dinners with low feasting tides.





I N S U R G E N C Y  Could the architecture have prevented structure would be successful.  Earth the blimp, Earth the Hindenburg, our helium confidence in Earthblimp, a spectacle for newsreel, lightning theory, engine exhaust sparks theory, sabotage theory as one who has not slept I point to the sky.  Unable to remember what has already been said nearing the lake.  Ghost fat, invisible and hideous, tell it to get off your couch and brush its one tooth. Sorry, I'm yours!





I N S U R G E N C Y  Broken tailpipe, the sky’s excuse for arriving late.  I believe in too little already to contest. In times prude going public betrayal, maybe repressed, the donors give us scallops for eyeballs, peculiar as a weasel. ( C o u n t e r I n s u r g e n c y )  In the midst of our greatest legacy, direct cars away from the scenes of our accidentals, tanks looking smart green erect in desert-steel behavioral problems.  Labor intensive, like a baby diaper life spent involuntarily, squat-naked and pushing.  Our machinery travels on Civil War rations, resources for which you and I are incapable-exempt and fucked with privilege gems.





I N S U R G E N C Y  Your skull opens graciously on the street, calls well into my night ringing me awake. Even though the telephone is in hell’s hall closet, for now hell still rings, a ghost limb picks out a knife and holds it to my ear, knives plucking at mites throbbing beneath wax.  Mouths water. Hello? I ask plucking the knife like heavy fruit from its itchy arm then wishing the entire orchard well, y’all take care! One hand reaching down your pants, the other far-reaching makes the ringing a comfortable ambiance, everyone is in awhile, calling before I picked up. I don’t get that feeling anymore.  ( C o u n t e r I n s u r g e n c y )  By the tassel of my boots I’ve been herded and sprayed for nits.  The gulag ripening me for Gitmo scabies, I’m renamed Stabs-By-Mistake. Just years threaded on a string before I lose my gifts, I divide and stow them out of reach on dishonest ledges flanking narrow dungeons.  I’m pursuing my education elsewhere. I think I’m ready, for some eggs now whole foods. This soup has me thinking infirmary where all angels are amputees.





I N S U R G E N C Y  Outside the window some bird makes such a terrifying cry I’m too scared to go back to sleep.  Bird watcher, an enthusiast with binoculars identifying ruffled feathers.  What whistle wants to mimic Anglo-Saxon?  In time to defend our integrity, a melon vine with high-light standards reaches up and out to choke surrounding nightshades.  Plants grow on all fours.  Tall is less stable.  Our stance, a feral horse in constant rear.  ( C o u n t e r I n s u r g e n c y )  An Exclusive Economic Zone is a seazone where states have special rights we’ve handicapped to wheel around.  Think Kathy Bates in Misery, but if the writer had been a poet and the poet was aquatic, pertaining to, or of, the sea we shouldn’t have explored.  But some Cousteau was a Cocteau and named what he saw squirmed under light, then had to show us, which we took to be our own.  We can make a horse do anything but talk. Tell that to the marines!





I N S U R G E N C Y  When you’re 600 ft deep without some breathing apparatus you end up resentful. Rolling over, saying you’re not in the mood.  As if ‘mood’ is any way to hate your lover.  Clip the plug while they’re descending.  Love is the largest fight happening!  A bloated cadaver surfaces, blooming Sasquatch for the Queen bee.  Opportunity parachutes. Then tangles. Wretched happiness, you have all the colors fooled.  ( C o u n t e r I n s u r g e n c y )  My intelligence can’t tell the difference between combatant and civilian, so we’ve listed foxhole symptoms.  Identifying marks just agitating enough to keep us going. Honesty can resuscitate any moment causing it to fester, prescribed drugs with side-effects.  Fist-brain, are you living the dream?  I’m not breathing I’m puking up air.  If uninhabitable construction, then a somewhat sustainable destruction.





I N S U R G E N C Y  Even the introduction was a glass edge mechanically slaughtering your swine for you. Foregone conclusions, ambitions leading a sedentary lifestyle.  Each brick collides and settles into the mortar between.  Cohesion orders a pizza, grabs your wallet, a tacklebox with empty hooks.  Ashes are thrown, a flag dissipates above the Sound, one narrow body of water linking two larger egos, staph infections traveling to the heart.  Sloppy dough at the follicles breaking bells of bread. Water is as sexy as solitude gets.  ( C o u n t e r I n s u r g e n c y )  Your mucus hijacks my lungs, plunges us through a collage of coils, symphony of gamblers, just a group of our friends plucking and tuning their instruments.  This introduction—grieving for the fancy handwork that went into this before we dimmed the lights and lit the props. To kill you have to believe.  A murderer is a believer.