Long Island

I've wearied the last few years with an eraser, trying to divest of covering the masterpiece under the canvas, scratching at the crusted-over surfaces:

were there windows? Certainly there were gaping spaces and cherubim upon bicycles painted over with a dog and a not many affairs....

The old bring under rules were the good subjects. delight in greed, a stultifying awareness your arms ne replenishing. The paradise of shifting traumas

slivered into a chorus of bickering interior voiceseveryone had a want a mismatched seam, a flaw you could diocese through, a pencil thin crack in the beaker

So whatever was distinct about us, bright or sensual, became sordid, unworthy, a visit to the doctor where the cancer's fastened to a rib, a series of periods

on an advanced in years piece of carbon paper. The twisted machinations of childhood were nothing more than a hardly any coughs at the office, to be discounted later,

so while individual was changing the channel, another was soaking the dishes and the third stood behind her, waiting to sexualize the twinkling of an eye

Those who had maids understood slavery. Those who had wives, bosse those who decorated according to magazines, those who sat in a chair

while a parent guided their pencil to the right answer, the dead draped in flags, they also serv While upon the other side of town, upon a more personal level

we didn't want to be no more nothing, for a like reason we slummed at the chicken shack, where the dead flies upon the counter that looked like jewels were really roaches.

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