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Bill Freind

Four poems

Serenade for Intercom and Tardy Chorister

Eddie, tonight the city reclines in its placence, a manual ours for the reading — listing, even, the antic windshield like camaros forswearing reach. Exciting salads there for the begging, o mein comparison, the music swelling in the forecourt tangs absent jewelry. You might have settled for the noncall’s incohere, I know, yet we sit leavened amid the exorable satchel, snorts in arms and disposable in the ask of all tomorrow’s proteins, nodding, nodding. Off to one side we passenge in zirconial rebodying, patriating some spoofly ha. The unpossessives clatter, thinky and overcooked, greenly realers coriant like an accountant in the compost. The wordage of the familiar vermin is ultimately theological, you said. Possums final in their unmodifying at the taskers’ delevance, the replay amid drifty shatter, confetti reheating in suramerican giftwrap.

Dispensationalist Foxtrot

Among reductive vistas the literalists unclay, one noing claimily as the tocsins leave him boxeyed sans pivot. In the flatlands a music of endorse, precise in its inexistence. Questions come corey in orange only waiting, as if the endings weren’t forgone. This orbit of would-be undancers at the fence, taunting surly geists with arms enrobed above the satellite dish — one’s for the rec room, the others are to slim the odiants. Transversed to one yawning replace, retented and flated. The filmy legions dehorrored, wight metathroned, napping. Embrace of wrecky froth, a catchphrase for the bottomfed as the rerisen bleat in their unsuchness. We can resolve this at the beheading.

Deportation Celebrant

Pilot enrapt, the plane arcs at the sea as the chorus fret their lyres for an end, but then a skyey smoothness. Pause. Dance we certain among the rows of stormdoors in the discount store, then lunchtime in the smelter, humming the soundtrack for the setpiece. Here now a ductive woo. I the reauthorized, the would-be pointilist, wait for an apter tally. Counting begins tomorrow and will need no archive. Rage, rage at the complicit sparrow, its skeptic anthems of cover bands. We’re out of rockets but can muster a lo-tech trembling. In the meantime, I’m the photographer refacing falsetto for dandy misdelivery. Mogrify as we pretend to taunt the effable, this nation of emoticons at the bonfire of the muu-muus.

Chillun of the Hods

Spiros, an eggy union seems strangely enough, like underdrawn poultry clicking earlily. Beside the tiny shoes and screen door, one might even surrender outcast mode, a fraud semi-checked in the transparent niche. There are countless examples: the retsina at the awkward massacre or pickups chortling as dockwork in the usual gray. Character actor or catalyst, we depend still on the missing remote. Something impends a spacely change of cream framed as ceiling back when I was an historical novel. Now, I am a daring reinterpretation of a cultural icon, a change of waters nurse-colored in the slim Atlantic. A looksee from the bushes and we go. Relegged.

April 2006  |  Jacket 29  Contents  |  Homepage  |  Catalog  |  Search  |
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