Evening Will Come: A Monthly Journal of Poetics (Issue 21, September 2012)

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And then I am on the floor next to the bed, not sleeping, and writing and dreaming and there is the 90-year old woman who shoots herself inside her bedroom while the sheriff stands outside the door of her foreclosed home with an eviction notice.

This is in Ohio.

And she murmurs to me while I try to sleep.

She joins with the murmurers of the rotten carcass economy to form a chorus who participate in the drama which may or may not be about how I will never be able to sleep.

And finally I close my eyes on a bed of broken bones.

We are in Chicago.

And the choral murmurers are in purgatory.

And they want to know what is to be done now that the bubble has popped.

And they ask me this while I don’t sleep.

And they tell me a little story.

They sing:

Once there was a native body who decided to build a foreign body for mass consumption.

But the body was indigestible.

The children tried to eat it.

But the flesh was rotten.

The economists went silent.

They did not wish to make public their quantifications.

Of the values of the deteriorating foreign bodies.

But there was sunshine, data-bodies.

In fact, it was a marvelous day for the beach.

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