Gerald Burns signature    


Cobbled horse dray life with the visible midden just gone, around the corner from us, blind fiddler
on mud road to be spelled for a reason rode, farm decision not to risk wheels on it,
my yard slush pocked by the dog, mad-eyed given a home by the front-house people the
ground common, garbage hung outside the hurricane fence picked through to by it. Any stockade where
people live penned, ill cared-for will have wire for cheapness and ordure in the path.
Unhappy at the Hitler poster on that stage, train smoke among fluting flat-hatted musicians, we
barely safe from the legend over that gate, maybe legend (as maiden-eating dragon) what iron’s wrought, the
lo words we (they) said aren’t allowed now as rhyme sinks in millions unused. The Frick’s
Polish Rider is solitary and virile on a horse like a Durer mistake and do I remember does he carry
a war hammer well a quiver, legend the land around him between the emaciate legs, wind
through that fence top I bet (how far is Silesia from Poland.) There is pressure like
McGoohan’s face through soft balloon, making rings in steel – all those mock-social patterns
that are a homogenous medium announcing itself. Do you smell earth looking through glass at the mole
tunnel in the New York diorama. How that is to say get away from effect as effect contemplating
a genetic inadvertence pretending historicity as other than something we are told, weariness of that telling
plates that were pots found underground the solder having given way that held
gift rings or (unthinkable) oranges, walnuts, birch fronts to flick at slaves and given it
what is the king to put in it.





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