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Christopher DeWeese

 

Poem For The Beagle Boys

 

Don’t wear the bear suit:

hunters will shoot at you,

then police-light

will bathe the wild damp.

In the living room,

we swallow August.

We wave our blood,

a red flag as the light fades,

subtracting mountains.

“But what about the clouds,

the invaded sky,”

you ask, your hair a dotted line

waiting for saw-teeth

to wiggle triangles

through its extended altitudes.

Soon enough, it’s October

and we’re in business

breaking into banks again.

We get dandruff

to be confusing in blizzards.

When we’ve been weeping

we switch numbers,

wear the same outfits.

If we don’t get put away soon

in the heated family jail,

we won’t be there in time

to open our presents.

 

 

 

Command Command

 

Corporals dream, we dream

in residential logistics:

the cost of silver uniforms,

a stipend for the hobo,

the precise width of each flagpole.

We weed this neighborhood

of “To Whom It May Concern”

in favor of morale-building aliases

like Golden Bag or Sex Hawk.

If our dreams lack weather,

they must be federally mandated

or just ghost-written.

They must be stored somewhere,

possibly as murals

or in the evidence time-capsules sequester,

some for posterity

and some for confession.

The problem with memories

is when we zoom in

and stop the tape right here

we realize there is only one house

one tree and one car

repeating like a preview

for the most boring dream ever.

Immaculate, geometric blocks

revise our history

into an endless, socialist landscape:

something inside us

has turned, an emoticon

whose wink has been replaced

by bolts and nuts.

To be honest, it feels great.

Without a setting, only plot remains.

If there is no plot,

we’ll just keep eating doughnuts

and sticking pins into the big table.

 

 

 

 

 from Alternative Music

Yellow Ledbetter (Trance Remix)

  

House-fires in the morning,

I don't mind this tasty day

 

Why can't you wink when you're flexing?

Ohio is a vampire, you say

 

I never asked for this mountain

Don’t know if I’m a fox hunt or a man

 

Why couldn't the taxes vanquish

All the modern councils?

 

When the chances vanish

I never ran away

 

 

 Possum Kingdom (Sucker Drone Mix)

  

The boathouse helps me

Forget the ugly lake

 

The infinite chardonnay

The hypotenuse

 

When the clouds are gone

Inside the lake

 

It was hard to imagine

We could make better ones

 

Fish help me,

Consequently I've got brine