as an amply considered poem or writer he lives not
quite existing but living / dreaming over in berlin &
one fine morning full of flowers throws himself
from an overpass ……with survival an extreme
cultural correlative is born / beautiful young pianists
saw it with their own eyes walking to instruction: you’ve
been the mail-order-bride too / gifted / silent as a piano or
walking averting a parcel of baby from crowds / others
(you’ve sat at a bench feeling lively or is that unsettled:
the difference between two things or words a gulf & a half)
consequently one could go on: stratify the world the others &
stay motionless always mixing & ever being. but that would be
cruel. all a writer need know is not much: there is nothing
you will not inhabit / the boiled by-product of guilt exuding
from every brain the a national flag stuck on most shirts –
suck this in this conglomerate view this stance enables sure
prediction (it’s mostly ‘all you’) & oh woe is that / the poem
notes your emotional shadowboxing / that / + this tendency to
be prolific / it has been noted, labelled as such…but you are
beautiful when captured /

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