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Tuesday, April 03, 2012

I am not here to help.
Arriving in a new town, I claim

my ability to escape from it.
The straightjackets and handcuffs,

myth and misdirection. I am ruinous
to your early Twentieth Century torpor.

When I see an underwater chamber
and a length of chain, I say

it looks like a door—not a trap,
not a menu of confining circumstances.

But when I gaze upon the Capital—
the concept, its obdurate green—

I see a ghost ship
adrift in the Pacific,

captainless and chasing no fish.