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In Media’s Rest

Emily Dickinson was wrong before White-Out
clouded the Hard Rock Café.
How can I complain,
dressed like Angus Young, an “Ever Moment Ultimate” strike-out?

[See: "extratextual scripture”
as fashion rips her
(passion jigsaw)
a “less than” ricksaw.]

I want my own genre--

I’m into Sappho’s soapbox potential,
relentless accidents,
arapaho lacking,
rapturous laughing,
hacking a wrapper

open to enough in my heart
to negate need in your heart.
She’ll string a steak to a page:
“Be Really,” (Fate x Door choices.)
Editing will come by poison and mantra,
and I want my own genre.

Your apple’s plugged in.
    | | | | | | | | |
Religion’s a bug in
technology’s dug-out.

You make a decision,
published and uniform.
It spreads the Pope’s hands when you’re borne

open to enough in your heart
to negate need in my heart.
I’ll string a steak to a page:
“Be Really,” (Fate x Door choices.)
Editing will come by poison and mantra,
and I want my own genre.

Translated thunderbolts to a new medium.
One is through language, one is to come.
This is through
Medium made more available.
In Media’s Rest
I work the flesh

open to enough in my heart
to negate need in your heart.
She’ll string a steak to a page:
“Be Really,” (Fate x Door choices.)
Editing will come by poison and mantra,
and I want my own genre.

Your bravest work will leave your people behind.
Convention is kind, convention gets timed.
Your bravest work will ripen fully, rot the Reason Man.
It’s the poses that pull your brain like taking of the lamb.  

Emily adds the strings,
fur on my wings.
Don’t mean a Nothing.
Don’t mean a Nothing,
her loss of style
spacing to the next text’s
deviation of page.

(The dog is plaid,
The god is played.)



Fate