Distorted Torque of Flora’s Red

      (written after eating only red foods for a day
        while under the influence of a red wig, right
        side in curls, left side straight)

 
                                   the sick
                               of magic
                           lining up

                          line lost
                                line made
                     to disappear on impact

           Italian Seasoning on
   the Chinese food
           frightened
           him
           at first

                    fading cow not
                    far from our
                    dragon-headed
                    sperm stains

        please stop
   prying the dramatics of
         the sun

                a drape
                the line
                into no
                asking makes

           you’re so hot when
                it’s your birthday
                direct
                descendant
                of mud

                  after they
                execute you
              they won’t return you
            to your cell because
              you no longer
                know how
                  to suffer

              cold
            tongue a
              line of
                credit
                  ends

                     a line
                the leaves
                    fall through

                      weak men are
                            the danger
                 listening to prove their
                        loyalty against enemies

                         knuckled
                         where a
                         line asks
                         a line
                         to cross
                         against
                         the light

              dear contentious nativity
                       I was never weak
                       merely outnumbered

                          shaking
                          tracks
                          the line
                          the trains
                          follow

                          In Philadelphia
                  our poems constantly
                  amend the
                  constitution

                  my architect says
           I need more than $108 in
                              the bank to
                                   build the
                            poetry hotel


         my architect
              asks me to
              stop referring
              to him as
              my architect

                        the line the
                        scalpel
                        makes

                         a system of
                       sparks warms
                         cold spaces between
                                   the toes

               I sign the Christmas card "to
        my architect
               your body
               produced a
               child who
               built a school."








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