Blotto


Have you ever? Oh no

never I’ve never no (But I could be


assuaged. Never swilled foul fruit juice.

Nor have I delliws, which’s swilled spelled


backwards—case you couldn’t deign—and

I haven’t the opposite swill


neither. Juice—what’s juice—fruit foul, smelly’s

spilling-up in chunks of throat cause I feigned


forgetting eating dinner for water sugar stead, whoops

there’s lunch, bit bye bit bye. It’s so wrong wrong that up-goes


right-justified wrong, two-mourning-over-

seven-nights wrong, glugging whatever’s


left of smashed to-and-fro; wrung towels. Crushed

grapes mean forgetting about their seeds,


mean disremembering sutures twiddling

dumb thumbs of x and y, barely


palatable. And now aughts later, above a porcelain

(overheard) I reckon for stamping


purposes most grapes’re seedless and seed

banks’re quite—poised in little hilltops roadside,


guarded, hovering, hiding their protean intents, their

nodules of phenomena in wads of dirt, worm. Is all natural redundant, and if so


, which part. I’m so glad I have nought

to spit out the grapeseed, just its firmament,


spoiled, spinning, above me, before opening the fridge,

before sweeping up the linoleum, wiping down by peals


of mimesis, closing the fridge—cutting

boards and dull light—again, unhinged, erupted,


a new jar, a clean one, other mouths

should glug).

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