 Robin Wyatt Dunn lives in a state of desperation engineered by late capitalism, within which his mind is a mere subset of a much larger hallucination wherein men are machines, machines are men, and the world and everything in it are mere dreams whose eddies and currents poets can channel briefly but cannot control. Perhaps it goes without saying that he lives in Los Angeles. we'll dream the night and day waking the rage to skate the plain trembling spite and sleet agony invited dour saints dripping housewives the split and the straight of the town buried miles in the deep I'll take you, if you want to go underneath gear me to weep no better now than before no better trained not ready for the tryst of a woman not weary enough for the course of true love not able to see the horizon take me into the sea either one: above or below the tears remember how to sip their grog and I remember how to bury the future with daggers charmcackles rock and rake the sailor in me to know the breeze and cut slack stalwart wax enlisting facts and acts into the graduated castilian mile we've been tracing round your eyes; no one but spies can see the dead inside, waiting to know how far we've come; drinking the light like prize champagne to truck the nectar down to town with you; grab and still the monkey juice to tell the number of the truth; two hours till I'm inside the inner district, explosives strapped to cheeks, and one week till we'll reprogram the minarets to blast the Rolling Stones: it's seventeen dollars to go to France, and fifteen for candlewax over your sleeve, for the midnight ceremony on the porch of all the Eastern Elephants who've been sunning on the courtship summer riverfront: ten to go underground into the catacombs and five for eggs; shake out your hands; I have a fever for the rocks, each one inside its own color; piling to mark the way home (some place we've never been) except in imagination, the divination of the spirit cords the mice inside my hat to shriek and bat away the dreams; I have all of that in spades; each hour and each name in fragrances exact and incorruptible; I have it mapped and laced and wrapped for your regard alone, under miles and miles of life, culling us into a comb for spelling old homes and disaster: name the spell and wrap it closer for the first view of the ocean (one we've never seen): I can see it in your eyes, like a dragon sleeping. rum the fun and drum the scowled wastes scouring the countryside in haste to find enlightenment and jewels (or at least more rum) the gun is loaded and the rickshaw tents are standing in the air like egg white peaks ready for the oven: rage and nourishment spite and silk standing towers over the tilt of the continent spill over the edge into my mouth: the liquor of the gods is miles and ages striated universes in your eye igniting family sucks the tide out
brainchild braintree codpiece shining god sucks the life out trauma police we cry over the funerals quiet to tame the stark and mad to bring the garrulous tin-man into the street so we can bash him dead I'll bash you dead it's my name and I have all night to make it mean whatever I want in America in America I am mad A shining spit falling slow onto the asphalt cut gravel and dirt to see it suck in the earth
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