STICK A HUNK OF METAL WITHIN THIS FORM
Marty Cain
I plug
the deer-sensor
into the camping
generator
& turn the dial
we walk to the water
we stick in our tongues
to swallow the droppings
of cyborg deer
we came to murder
the hoofprint moons
like a fucked-up heart
property rended
of blinking traffic
a continual summer
or surrender
when I shut my eyes
the ferns around me
we drive several miles in the truck
with a spider making
a web in the bed
it sways in the wind
the world makes forms
and the king makes fences
to keep us from killing
ourselves on the gorges
in the name of patrilineal virtue
and implied liability
call this number
if you want to die
the deer-sensor sings
the wind hits leaves
and we follow prints to a thicket
where the animatronic deer
built a living space
the nomadic creatures move each hour
their television blaring
their paisley couch where they sit
and drink coffee and watch Bambi and cry
a nuclear family produced
through the law of the father
we come for them quiet
we see them sleeping
the king made us killers
or we made the king
and I walk behind the buck
and slit his throat
and we poison the fawn
and crush the doe
and the eyes leave the sockets
there is no blood
there are only springs
and wire and gears
rollicking gently across makeshift bedding
we stare in the iris
we see the reflection
the wires hold
we see the king leave the bath
and water drips down
his lean white body
he sits on the edge of the tub
his balls hang limp
he shuts his eyes
and his tears start running
how do we kill
in the garden we’re building
from the book THE PRELUDE / Action Books 
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"And this man burning alive, the fire starting at his feet and moving cephalad—the drama of a head spared to the last, as if the fire was doing us a favor, granting us the memory we desire for when the genocidaires’ dream finally ended them. A final solution boomerangs as a version of a pyrrhic victory with no victor. Burning alive, the man had no name, only titles of what he was and was not to us. A Palestinian in Gaza. Age unknown."

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What Sparks Poetry: Aaron McCollough on "Not at Duino”

"I am increasingly persuaded that American Christianity’s embrace of Donald Trump is simply the latest expression of a terrific counter-scandal, effectively another, much more gradual transvaluation of values, whereby the dominant American secular and religious visions have aligned themselves with a cult of progress, the technocratic human image for which power can only mean domination, exploitation, and mastery. The key joke of this era is the one where the man puts a gun to his head, and when his wife starts laughing says to her, 'What’s so funny? You’re next!'"
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