GEORGIA FAUST


 
 
LAND-LOCKED I AM SUSPICION

Such as preparing the body for the fullness of winter: In later life is influence.
I am bodiless now and in projected tense. Under St. Paul fire stairs, lost in
Processed past. Disappearing in snow banks, I lost in the shag carpet the tack
Or pin of institutional generations. In this house we have too many channels
And in the other house, gone. The basement inhabitant hoards shared dishes.
I am an island, no a barge, on someone else’s upholstery. What I can’t have:
The warm of the feet, the heart, or the excessive of interlocking Venn diagrams.
There is a face in a frame and a Tootsie roll in a pocket for times of crisis,
Until I’ve overstayed my welcome, when only the end days are for socializing.
 
 
A glimpse of face. He left the room and then the state. I changed seats and
The other side of night under strung lights next to an unknown. Night becomes day
Again, I am together see-through and invisible, across the room opposing coasts.
In the last house, the laundry room invites strangers or ghosts. A time-share evidence.
What is a life of overlap, I decorate someone else’s religion, the squirrel stays
Dead for days. The neighbors are the unknowns, throwing beer cans at the phantom
Lost cats. Suspicions of a half way house, at 4 PM the cops are called.
We’re watching through the Georgian peephole. This mansion is not my house.
End days are werewolves land locked. There are concrete Timberlands in opposing sizes.
Snow banks fall in love and in black ice. The eyelashes and feelers of the nose
Freeze to industrial waste. Wisconsin burns its incense on fireworks and cheese.
 
 
In another place a symphony broke an escalator. And then again tomorrow.
No one says why are you here when you don’t belong here.
These places do funny things to you, or so I’ve been told. A still body vibrates
Muscles in the inner thighs. We teach and re-teach the nose to breath.
I sleep as I walk in day and wake up stomach hallowed night. Suicide prevention
Hotlines on speed dial: Someone at the other end is paid to be a friend.
The lights burn out to the impression of homeless. No I in Home Alone.
Prescriptions change with the seasons. One day you’re falling in snow banks
And the next you’re all joints on asphalt, considering blood only when bleeding.
The body is a volcano, a plethora of positivism, then fools gold in the lava.
 
 
I am real in the world, absorbing vitamin A, visiting the Mississippi
In an elder care facility. Spring comes and changes the conversation:
Introduces sun to the aging of thaw. A room repurposes for paper cutouts
And the collecting of sunbeams on snow. Neutral in context the arriving
And back to the back I was lost and now stepping found in stoned seasons.
I know what I came here for light obstruction when the sun does what it learned to do
Not thinking in inside terms in terms of sunspot patterns spotlight capturing sound.
The jogging activity’s purpose of motion exists in time process. Not progress,
For the shin splints. Attempts among many worlds. Help in a moment until my shins
Like concrete crack on impact of the heel what I mean is I look the part and trot away.
 
 
 
 
MORE SKIABLE ACREAGE

First understand I can no longer distinguish the material of currency from the material of love
You are the wrecking ball and I wrapped in fur a single tear Swarovski crystalized
My feelings for you are derivations of ratchet culture
My feelings for you invented the derivatives market
I saw you outside the vortex close to the wall trapped in your boots losing height I joined you
Trapped too tangled to your ankles and we a statistical analysis of a third party’s closet space

Let’s suppose I am your regulator; Let’s suppose the pigs are here to keep me safe
Sometimes you are the micro of cat litter zoomed in less stable than crystal
I have committed to hereditary static: your eyelids swallow dimming what the eye takes in
Chains of soft you didn’t have many thoughts up there but me trapped in a sun space
I am your come down the wall’s refrain ran out of color steady there against your side
Off days are for the Library of Congress                on good days

You and I nervous columns defending the deadlocks
He shadows and the rest is just raveling                                                  Splinters run into a jar
 
 
 
 



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