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yule monster lake tide

12/18/2014

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like something swollen 
with secret: throated, gleeless and aching
for breath, not breath


not enough to fill 
this yawning 
watered-down sub-space


          (it’s edges are filed nicely though: all crystal and sandpaper and shine)

pompous and snag-free,
your holiday sweater’s fully 
intact


no snow roses

or tinsel teeth
or pine needle disinfectant

only things left unsaid 
and bubbling at the underbrush of
baby talk--really gutsy baby talk--


          (we’re talking eyeballs and soft spots and milk teeth here) 

we pray to the ancients for bigger everythings
--fins, humps, gills, morosity--
to fill up this endless home-sick-ness

of blackened wishbones 
and garish garland
eggs deviled with care

Dear Grand-Monster Ness,
(It’s okay if I call you that, right? 
I mean, I know we’ve never met, 
But it feels like I know you.) 
Your gloom effuses all waterlogged cavities.
I really like your tail.
Seriously, I’ll take whatever,
though an anchor would be divine.
With subtlety and haste,
The The Empty. 

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