Not right now, she says,
when the river leans
so heavy against the levee.
What does that mean
is what I ask her.
She says,
Is it all about me?
What do you mean?
You are weak, she says,
and I am strong. It's all
about me, ain't it?
Ain't it?
She says.
Paranoia’s in bloom this spring.
Paranoia and the black mold and the long
fingers of victorious high school principals
snapping those vapid Victorian songs.
Oh, we should never, we
should never be afraid
she says to die.
Assurnasipal II of Assyria inaugurated something or other.
He smoked cigarettes and built ziggurats.
I build a tower of words
with poplar poles and cottonwood beams,
a tee-pee whose top
reaches unto heaven.
I build my flimsy tower
on an inlet of the Internet
where the search engine shows
me my eyes.
Where the search engine shows
me the me
my eyes want to see.
Where the search engine flows
syllables over the levee of my heart.
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