bonnie emerick




Invention (con't)



I confront the present.
Tear the bow.

Not to sign the cross but to
earn the cross

signing me. Aspirations of martyrdom

I fuck up. Advise others not to
attempt syllables.

Playing liberates
god help me separate

I from you. Profiles of pronouns

plucked over. I chew
face off to see

if love inhabits
a scope a prop.

The innocent drama ends

with us imprisoned
creating the impression

of clarity
as never passive.

Not the receiver I do justice

to habit’s anonymity.
Name the tarted-up meat market

Rachel  who fell ill
before us. Here is a twist

of pastry becoming
true metaphor.

It’s mine. I call it.

We all do take a bottle
to the head.

Just spit.
It’s all we have.

If I were an able body

I wouldn’t be
someone revealed

by those whom I

I swap judgment for my own use.

Less howling.
Better posture.

A straight campaign












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