What the boulevards stage, the out in
the open: these crumbling tropes please

the bedecked, each thinly sponsored seat
a silent market of flies. Analyzing

pedestrian analyses crowd publication,
R&D. The press won’t run our tickets, the

red crammed too raw onto plates. Stirred
people floodwater avenues. In our country

we grope for which bundle of flesh
do tickles hide from colonial masters.

From his peninsula are salves,
props parading
out through theatrical, revolving doors.

Let us dress the balcony with traffic lights
right down the aisle, to the insides

of CR cubes! In aortic architecture,
what constant is the cost of assembly

of, say, a bus onstage, set to explode?
Was gala the extent of your intentions, or

do we want them to stagger, savoring
their day-to-day fully aware, dilate?

This much we do have: “We want them.”
The more we shut our eyes, the more they pulse.


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