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Untitled by Sherry

November 19, 2010


i am



the upward thrust of trees is too much

the force of the veined branches

cracks me from beneath

the soles of these, which

carry me only

to limited spaces

i am

confined and reprimanded flesh

that curls into itself for

desperation and lack of



these same dumb feet, numb with confusion

do not know where to place themselves when they are finally unshackled

they are too timid to travel and roam with an unending

evolution into the next step

and the next step

next step



without arrows for guidance

while simply only breathing and sensing in complete wonderment

basking in the one thinly spread metaphysical soul

which encompasses the breadth of this

earth, of which

i and we and you and us are only small parasitic components


the metamorphosis.

to absorb, to smoothly melt

from element to another

existing as the syrupy blood of a tree by easily

slipping my bones around it

could bring the yearning in touch with the being, to expel the physical handicaps

and completely pursue only the desires of the spirit


i can only touch it from the

exterior, like the hands of the wanting who

place their palms on the glass and bronze and gold-dipped excrement like

they are hunks of divination carved and dropped from the


but feel nothing, no life

and they imagine a cold pressurized response

in justification of their want.

shed the warm and benign skin of this

slothlike life, this life which

is frightened by the massiveness of the mountains and the weathered age of the trees and the seductive sex of the beautiful flowers and

a call to arms

a silent fleeing to the outside of this massive feeding inorganic being that has usurped the peaceful existence



we, they, us, me, you, them

choose to desensitize it, mechanize it, create the ultimate efficient machine

which rumbles with agony and painful speed

to bring quick bits of joy to the gluttonous masses

and now

my feet can only feel the sliced and compartmentalized


that replaced the breathing


swallowing rolling dirt

flesh of the core, this natural element

this inexplicable sphere, riddled with pores of

life bursting from its skins

which is whipped and beaten and excavated to an inch of its life force

smoothed and flattened

so that we become a technocracy, the life of

dulled ants

unaware of how much larger everything is than we are

and infallible in the desperate

mindless hurry to our goals

which reap but moments of pleasure,

pleasure which swims murkily to us

and goggles its zoo-going eyes at us

through the plexiglass, the opaque waters inside this uncleaned fishbowl.

The sky is a wall, and the

algae-eating snails will slowly clean up after us

but for now

we will shit blood in the gutters and

call it the juice of roses.


I put on my shoes to make it from this door to the next,

dancing on broken beer bottles and the corpses of

cigarettes from last weekend. There used to be millions of atoms here,

a sea of waving fronds and an endless bed

of horizon and wheat.

how downgraded our rights have become

the hand

that rests cruelly on the dial has turned it

to slow it all down, to dull the drip of sweat and running and yelling and singing and moving

our naked bodies

so that we instead can

seek only release from the


s             l             o             w                    m             o             t             i             o             n

o             f                    t             h             i             s

i             m             i             t             a             t             i             o             n

o             f

l            i             f             e



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