Daily Planet

Each day’s newspaper is vaunted so hugely/right before my microscopic beady eyes./flames from a soul,  night birds/just can’t provide the same illusions./I fold my hands in prayer/so I might clean them/they’re mostly caught up/in what’s called bad luck./Parades, haunted houses, handshakes, all politics is due to gender,/ light without heat./A Kansas City woman calls her broom a rocket/it blasts out of her innards/and it’s gone tomorrow./The report that makes the others true?/Bigfoot, Iran, the measure of snow evenings./Smokeless, giddy art, hands resting on hands/there’s misfits center stage, they really love it./As everyone else does, they rush to concur,/they grasp the damages done/the price of dimes to enter the print world./honeybees on the border of races mingled./I can’t really taste cold water.

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