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The Beloved Asks Me What Do I Know about Logging
Jared Stanley




A creeping vine
cut off and hanging
in the crown of a
washingtonia palm.

My arm hair, matted.

Being a narrative, Iago-like,
dog-low with enthusiasms, or,

what it is
to be tetchy in a noosphere,
the no fear
area in here.
A film sheathes the latte,
the breath of outside moves.
On not being inserted,
on being not its way.

Did I not smile wanly
in my polo shirt and dream
of future days, oh brain?

Beggared,
gleam gleam, teeth teeth,
money money money.
I lick my teeth at you, futurologist:

ask me how to
ask me how, omega pointedly.

Huge ravens over the people hang,
and find themselves knowing themselves,
at least as smart as the dog, seeking

what in the morning
hangs low in the tops
of the palms,
of the redwoods.

Walking on our brains,
the dog nuzzles my arms
while I type dishonestly.
Watering, coloring and pushy,
of collusion.

















































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