Wednesday, November 2, 2011

Anchorage I


S/he couldn’t find a single inelegant

sentence in the fiat – where the burn

outs the combe is the outmost part

of the MSA’s leverage; where we find

lucidity, on the tarmac, you dreem sonar.

Stir at SeaTac?? Antiflash and aluminium

abstract in the radiopharm, in Nixon’s HUD

this journey’s long, cuts continental corners

through the frigid zone and the cold

contracts. Screems in dead playgrounds.

Here no-one fucks in the afternoon,

there’s no rubbish and rime

even is managed: you’re shocked when

tangerine ripples the blue recording.

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