Round bottom jar talking
slowly to brother hair during peace talks.
Pajama pants walks dripping
by staring thinking of canned sex laughs
and wanting someone or
something to stare back wanting to get into
the soft pants. The
system one or two steps away, so close to a crumbling
chaos of matchsticks broken
and glass melted into hands. Sand, Sand, Sand
and glue bottles spilled.
Creeping closer, quietly pulling up a chair, setting
up summer camp for suicide
bombers. Why don't we wait in silence, eating
fruit from the blender
as time breaks down and we begin to look at each other
like sensual trees bearing
fleshy fruit fingers and watery melon? The steam is
smoke and the smoke is
a pleasure-death, rising in the dirt fields, bringing
the aroma of hard work
without compensation. The jars are taken and used,
filled with seeds and set
up on long shelves in basements. A whole generation
taken from the world and
placed in stasis, waiting for the Earth to shake them
loose, free, unbound, only
to swallow them up and bury them deeper.
2-21-02 DANielGERvais
