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Work at home encased in plastic, is it
born or learned gentleness, that is
can ungreased applications be worked in
without succumbing to sweating
--I work for cardiac health, have the whole urban
lifestyle, go past dinner for broke,
throats backed up with moral compulsions
not to do anything different but keep
going. And backed against the lists
scare easily.

The jenny has slowed to a piano
echo of jets uncurling
landing gear, sliding into slowness.
I can always travel to punctuate
the repetitions of control-s, of text
manufacturers. To ride out all day, into the emptiness
that randomizes commercial premises,
to open the anatomical right at its hinges
then swing into free space for family life ...
Where routers feed contamination right up to the wall.
Heels are hard and white/
in white hands the multi consistencies
hang about, like a wave snagged in a pin.

A fear of home not working, work that
makes time slide
through oils liquidizing in a window,
is a hook for the exterior.
Draw outside, that space
for exploring what doubt is, what's
too much salt and sugar, but fear of arrest
equals fear of being moved too far.
These forces stabilize the skeletal building
breathing in its jacket, its ears bathed in female
garage cycles, faking the passion to hoot.

Light little candles on postcards
or prepare for color supplements E-numbers that shake
the brain's humid lentils
depend on discrimination, and make it.
Live feed can disrupt the chain of administered logic
or idleness wrap the head cleaner with fluff.
Meat distracted with adrenal awareness,
how it comes to an end in a squeeze-box.

But how about the fear of working,
like a tramp needs a shave from a strap, a retreat
from time beaten through shameful picnics
in TV studios? Ahead could be flattened
and thick, carried away in bits by ants,
whose apparatus belongs to no one and trips
unclad into clover. So that was you hnh,
paralysed and hunted in the sidestreets, overturning
trusts. You are an animal again,
unable to control your own increase,
sugar levels limited day and night.

When can we meet in the space mall, it is stupid
not to be able to name your supplier
and the double action of work against life we split;
as sure as I sit here I have no trouble
considering that, it is my job to be randomly analytic.
That you wear my white hands like a twin.
In the garage calypso echoes neither joy or
sorrow, choices smacked up by the limits
of space, the rewards of travel. Another half billion bodies
have just been declared obese. How much
easier to believe as I tuck in that little remnant of tail
that you alone are hurtful, crippled by your extreme
hatred of the whole structure of organized labor?
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Author:Brady, Andrea
Publication:Chicago Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2007
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