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Poem
by Mark DeCarteret


muscle bound

even the stars
have been evacuated
so let's dispense
w/the formality
of resigning ourselves
to these postage
stamped interiors
& euphemisms
for soon our defeat
will put an end
to those questionings:
who left on the fan
or ate crackers
too close to the transistor?
the red flag is
its own destination
& the wind's always
been parenthetical
its tissue thin opinions
near par w/a flower's
flimsiest of debaucheries
soon you'll talk only
in secretive signs:
look again it says
nothing but hands!
& our past but
a diabolical locket
you've had me evicted
they only say it's so
easy going on like this
as if having at it
w/both our minds
would equate to some
kind of occupation
so I'm shelving the idea
about death being flight
& flight being the fact
of my matter irreparable
instead writing myself
into the story where
for most touch is nuisance
more time to be spent
removed from the feed