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Postmodern Village
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An attempt to not vigorously jump off the cliff as desired
By Christin Call

Robes a-swishing, testacles free-swingin',
they swagger about the columns of the banquet halls
for a few hours of work then out in the streets
to sputter through the vinegar of their wine, bust some lines about
similarly strung out hobos like Icarus--
how his mama was barking jokes in the hair salon
while his hoarder of a daddy mashed together wings
               from burnt perm papers, used hair curlers, canned earwax.

Story of a son so built up in his head
it was all destroyed, down to last, fried styrofoam core.
The venerable poets would fill this line with something 'bout hubris.
The venerable poets will steal the stone lions
               right off your patio in the dead-hot of night,
those darling lambs by the brook
               softly gnawing their clumps of dirt,
then watch who battles it out on top. Sometimes
they'll shake ass just to feel the bounding heartpipes babble
down to the dribbling, do-nothing syllable of crotch.

It sure ain't rocket science. Gods, there must be
a thousand names for the way the jambox speakers sizzle
               and shriek in this heat.
We passed, like, 17 McDonald's on our way
               to this sweating patch of grass in the park,
and you still act like I'm talking Chinese.
Honey, I ain't asking you to fucking finance the next
brooding boozer of our infernal generation.

We're gonna sit here in the direct sun
and count every shimmering leaf on the bush
glistening of its own sweet, girlie sugar. That is some sweetness,
some song that will sting the most beautiful, the most poor.