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. the way the silence covers the lightthe way the silence covers the light
the way buildings can magnify power the way the rhythm hides inside sidewalks pouring out of cacti festivals in the air: the way the people sway shaking their headaches under their shoulders for the rite watching the subway recede watching the light shine over your face what ghost is it whose city is yours this sleeping place one thousand dreams cut into clothes wearing them across the stage here is my face Kabuki red cut open here are my shoes made out of paper shuffling slow over the glass floor what kind of ghost is the city dreaming you awake to carry your paper into the hall to put on your hat to face the air of the threshold the sound of the engine the images on the walls the images on your mind the sound of the temple pouring out of the rock whose initiate are you in your ablutions toilet and kitchen bed and garden you are the audience but when do you give audience? the sound of the wood the make of the stone the spires of your thought wrought close together like trees like leaves the world made for you if you will make it the light and the hour tremble under your hand you are this estuary of being trembling by the sand
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