Conspiratory Love Poem Addressing All Imaginable PossibilitiesShafer Hall
Two people in different boroughs could not survive putting their heads together at one time, such plans require feet and chests and hips; these also have to get together or get near, so everything ends up an ardent mess on an evening pier. Arms can move a head, that's the trouble; feet argue constantly with other feet and treat the ground poorly. Pretty soon it's Friday night, and there are a bunch of people together making people. Oh, horrible conspiracies! Oh summer sun groping down into New Jersey! Spare us the periods and the condoms, the commas and prosthetics; those two people necking in the park are committing luxurious crime after crime! She is a wheelbarrow; he is a wheelchair. Ah, a little paranoia is a comfortable thing; a lot of that sex is only what people do with their pets, and on the return of steady breath sensuality is no longer a bad witch in a pleather-sticky dress. So I walked freely around with the slanted clouds floating Uptown; my lightning was unzipped, but on my way to meet you I realized that there was fog all over my notion, so I perspired into Daybreak: Northern Hemis-Fire.
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