Old poem. Got to put them s’where safe…

Welcome Home Rare Birds Jim Dine, 1969


Welcome home rare birds

The heart looks bruised or burned looks
black and wet burned or some kind of uh
disease has eaten away all the red of the
heart look how dirty it looks how bad oh.

jam of the pimp gives a
smear peel, white lead,
white phosphor, light at
the end where the lens is.

keep the burned and dirty heart in mind as
the list lengthens the list of objects or items
therein which serve to illustrate the burned
and dirty heart’s nature. What the heart has.

ripstop nylon pops in the
snapping wind bang bang
tear your zombie soldier self
a new fistula, keep shtum

optimism about the way the evening’ll go
occasioned by blam the smashed light of
the beautiful face faceted gemlike and apt
to be so ordered. Everyone looks great. OK.

cured by brines of dread
then boiled up all to fuck
toughened to human jerky,
handbag straps for neck tendons

the heart’s chambers clear their four throats
gulping blind in the full and fluid darkness
as the thousand dollar elevator doors slide
open. Uplit the bar. The clang of appetites.

a hole in yr stomach a
cat could crawl through
lets light through. Held
together by rave gear.

also cops got up like orcs in rave gear give
short shrift to the sunshine sunshine give
instead blunt shopping mall kung fu shit give
the heart a hard lesson. Killed by boys.

make a pretty o of you
look how yr walking, bandy.
rev the makita check it check
its rattling climbing sound uh oh

back in the bar with thomas wyatt mooning
gin fire breathing tossing olives at the clock
keep it up hardly sleep at all we’ll drown in this
dilute inky tide of the heart’s filth.

black tree nerves of the tracer
crack crack at the pale sky
indoors outdoors the light stutters
a dry hand covers your face

the little red mail van of the heart hits third
scoots the diorama pressed to the camber,
does the rounds, delivers on the day’s promise.
Love, luck and a greenish gold light. Spring.

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