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Postmodern Village
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an attempt to not move mountains for a Bavarian village, 1962
By Christin Call

/t'would be t'werrific/

the histrionics of lovers depants-ing on a trellis of bowers
where hummingbirds stab beaktips to blooms with nano-precision
above a honey-thick stream below lazily not a stream but the back alley on garbage day
in a confounded city, aphasiac, studying the morning after.

atmospheric dissolution--
the schoolgirl who nuzzles with knives is stunned.
       her veranda is only a mural.
the Chinese cadavers exhibit congenital clench,
       a failure to release due tension.
beyond city limits the daffodils have doe eyes
       only for Wordsworth. sawdust has settled
in every Byzantium crevice of his chest.

the world asks for one more romantic comedy with Ben Affleck.
the need is dire.
the world asks, how many nutcrackers can fit in one brazier?
it's dependent on the cup size, dearest Watsons,
and one's determination.

/objects and non-objectivity/

nearby an A/C unit brags like an ex, the dry edges
of its voice the raking of pavement under agate, kamikaze leaves.
arranged in the vase, imperviously content, two lovelies
lap up ambrosia like gods-- mouths wet as diamond cutters.

butter spread on her breasts like scones,
and he will partake. a scarf par accoutrements--
turkeys like to be dressed, stuffed, eaten.
playing wallflower with gameside seats, the faux mantlepiece
shivers in its painted craquelure, next time, yes, next time i'll be chaste.


/in gold underpants, sing us out bette midler/

under skulk of midnight crows a half-sheen of
a thing disguised--eyes and mouth, bones and blood,
brain a heavy son-of-a-bitch--
plucks at the graveyard grass for wreaths,
digs worms from the fallen apples.

stacks of coins topples from its eyes--
two slippery jackpots spilling from the socket.
it might be a braveness, small self-serving glitch,
it might be the unusually large pupils swallowing the world upside down,
enraptured.