 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. there'll be no summer today we're wanting more dead heat and red onions the last rites. leaving the city is like leaving your mother full of recrimination ecstasy and despair counting the rate of the burn of cash of hope of rest no rest is needed we're on appointment hoplite TSA mules (airport security, religious rite) all is fled we'll count your digits and teeth weigh and measure your body estimate allowances grievances bearances the history of your sins then push you in to the bath desert heat over the long boat reeve the corridor's reward of sleep reef the spill and sleet of our regard unconquerable paris is an old word for boat jetty scut and scar dinghy dunderheaded jar scape skull for soft and sweep no better no trial straight into the sail, death over île de paris burning eons' miles for Charles Simic I'll go under on the gun make me see what it is you saw the barrier reef of your mind washes high over the sky lightning red purple and yellow how did you get there? the gods are in your living room making themselves into furniture who makes you groan to see the city sight you
terrible and honest who burns the night red in despair who burns our night black ruinous joy screaming out of the sound of its highway love and grace ironed into the tarmac lucky speared death shot five hundred thousand miles an hour the simple turn of light
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