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Canyon Country
Jared Stanley




Bm7

Said the note
to the note diabolical.

My God,
my earth is a wobble,
platitudinous as desecration,

the needles on the trees here dry out scarily.
I do this for you, he says, like everything,
apparently,

and the notes of his voice drop out.
Ursus Horribilis,
highly hazed the clouds.

I am righteous, sir.
I made George Washington into a mushroom cloud

and was Peavey Powered,
flute-like

among my successes,
a white tail & a cloven hoof

mounted on the wall,

a wall of you
to be mounted to.

Thus dispatched,

I was
saved from a tussle.

My jayness, propped up on dead wood,

dead bird, flyingly,
full of hassle.
I go,
"it kills me."
and my birdness lifts.

Friend of demise,
unwashed, a prayer ,

abuzz, a bridge,
the player ignores
the one I love.

Toast the musician
in his magic mountain of participation.
Play, damn you!

His song gets better
when the devil shows up in the sentence
and the chord.

The trees dry out,

they changed their song:
leaves went

"MINE!"

every thing shrieked "everything"
to everything

"EUPOCALYPTUS!"

things shrieked.

With that, things
knew who I was,

beguile-grimed,
colicky, grounded,

midsummering,
covered in green oil paint:

"three earthquakes when I show up,"

I said,
all oceanical-like with my allegory money.
Wave to wave. She said,

"roll on,"
in the voice of a starling.

Despite everything

decorations are good information,
desecrating an impulse that's functional,

a veritable piñon pine of function and smells.
Roll on.
















































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