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Joshua Blackman



The Badly-Made Flyer of Revelations 

I fling my pick axe: 

Not a single frangible rock  

in the entire cave system of my ego. 

Just dust 

and a dreary, glutinous sense 

of having transgressed 

certain unexpressed boundaries.  

The dark 

is seriously dark down here 

beneath the shine and starjitter 

of early Nov. 

The mind sparkling to itself 

in flagrant pools, the serrated pulse  

of regret, this batmusic. 

Supposing the moon, which mechanically spins,

were to announce 


its departure – 

which of you here 

would roll back the rock? 

            I meant nothing but harm.

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