Sue Landers

 

EVERY WOMAN ADORES OUTING A FASCIST

From Manhattan: sights and sounds the sheer how now of it massive.
The hope the air is full of. And poison. We say me always.
I fear speak a fire month of three or years revel in weather terror.
Lower be it so the boom and rain this pace empty.
America the audacity dragon has a daddy complex.

Concentrate: symbols and targets the raw why past of it resonates.
The rock to lie a head upon. The hard place. Lie puts safe under.
I swing hate a pawn orange of hook or by crook cyclone volition.
Uncross the butterfly statue let time wash its wound. 
Do you need a minute to diagram this sentence?

You are safe. Code orange.
Shop tax free. Soft target.

IMAGINARY VISES WITH REAL TOES INSIDE THEM

Pink Medea Benjamin upside down and bannered. Thirty feet from Cheney. How much money, Mr. Cheney? How much blood, Mr. Cheney? Mr. Cheney, Mr. Cheney, you will fall and not get up.

On September 11, 2004, the President’s twin daughters, Jenna and Barbara Bush reportedly attend the gay marriage ceremony of their beautician.

SHUT THE FOX UP

I am a quiet grief mouse with murky nerve.
My skin itches from crusty bunk visions.
Alienated by a flag of multitask tyranny,
I wish for distillation, for root elements.
Or else, music, of groove complex or searing.

Break story. Wake. From myth comes pillage.
From pillage more myth. I fear my instincts
tell me to fear this chain link fence made of ash.
Come stillness. Come light. Come light like fire.
Bore a hole through this net.

EVERYTHING I AM TODAY TOOK DAYS TO DRIVE THE NOISE OUT

And in this green room a sun. 

And in this square plot the narrative of my rocking.

And in this my chant an empty playing field.

A swing state on which to focus attention.

Focus like a string through the center of a body the flesh like a sphere on its pole. 

Spinal cord give me now liver or bone.

And in this root a drilling.

And in this blood pepper and seaweed.

And in this current exists gravity.

Magnet music of overripe tension the sinking of teeth into beets.

A beautiful lung sound this my gecko love song of air.

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