MATTHEW COOPERMAN :
fire sintering the tainted heart
Another Souza
brays into the less
newly fallen, the matchstick
celebration, shattered chalices
who
broke the glass? For every
age that's overfull there's
a you with a brassy tan
some runneth of machinery,
bad agency, green despondent.
Grand Huzzah—
you sing of graces,
savings in the Grail.
A bucket, redwhiteblue
of the small dog's still
palavering.
Liberty Title.
"They would have their chariots
who do others, unto pain."
That's manufactured marches.
I sing Houyhnhnms.
—after Ed Dorn
Globe Rendering
there is an arc of hide
in the fallen stone a reason
what's picked up by the curb a curve
world fleshed out by convenience
grooves of madness it might be
it might be habit that the throwers are others
are purposely elsewhere in deserts cities
a kind of globe rendering going round
the crab apple burgeons its little fists
they are similar dispensations of need
each day in its circumference rolling
we are one weather distinguish places
dig in the earth for winter fruits
and the street a private fiefdom
one town over a pitcher throws heat
they despise in their lawn chairs others
fathers they have taken up the fruit
of vexing games it's a burning building a basement
of dreams the arc the prize of intemperate men
is a first fire sintering the tainted heart
what blazes diurnal bombs and boys
he cast it a bronze of interminable scale
it goes on traveling around something pure
the black blank sky like a stone like something pure
they are listening (chairs forward) always sided
a game involves leap both listening and doing
what we know is the ball is heavy
there is something pure in a heart can hide
Own Diminutive
We used to think things were solid
Now they're made of
Gravity dissolves anything
Made of parts
I'm in a starry hospital
Someone is reading the
Books of the dead are reading
Themselves
A "mine" is but a quote
Around the foreseeable
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(c) 2005 Slope. Slope
is ISSN # 1536-0164.
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