now in the park july no–
no parks are left.
we survive inside the maelstrom of infinity, a glitch inside the program of identity late capitalism–no early capitalism– what is capitalism?
the slaves chanting the names of their dreams
each one infinite, impossible to describe.
Now I am a man who is troubled. The way the sky in storms watches itself come undone to fulfill the swelling murmurs of its many names in triumph:
the triumph to tear down and endear the devil to the dream of your beloved, dead but revived.
Now we tear ourselves from the grave to speak
simple things like
“the street is dead”
“the sky is still blue”
“I’ve been here before.”
No one before will speak; not until it is time; no one has seen this episode. It has no writers. The director also quit. It is maneuvered by the arts department and some of the grips.
A kind of fashion show sans models. the spit and gristle of the managing betweens:
my only love.
Gear me to stupid and set in the mains, if they yet live, for all the treasure of the sea will not answer to the engine I have been seeking:
more than the sky.
more than the earth.
what rue or reason set into the night, blackened and baked by ruinous pacers of the riot squad, television agents, comes to center the mind in its own rights:
keep to quill
lines to lights
the name of the ocean
behind the ocean
the name of the mind
outside the mind
the name of love
set again to stone
to weight the coming of the light
wheel in the lens and the filters
for the spot:
we have cast an ingénue as Diana
we are her deer to flee the rush and roll
of the flood:
Robin Wyatt Dunn was born in Wyoming in 1979. You can read more of his work at www.robindunn.com.
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