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    (a torchon after Indigo Weller)


Some need some Body

or more to ape sweat

on some site. Bloody


purl or dirty spit

hocked up for to show

who gets eaten. Rig


Body up. Bough bow

to breeze a lazed jig

and sway to grig's good


fiddling. Pine-deep

dusk, a spot where stood

Body. Thus they clap


when I mount banc’, jig

up the lectern. Bow

to say, “it's all good,”


we, gathered, withstood

the bends of dives deep

er, darker. They clap


as I get down. Sweat

highlights my body,

how meats dyed bloody


look fresher for show

ing, I got deep, spit

out my mouth, a rig


id red rind. Bloody

melon. Ha! No sweat!

Joking! Nobody


knows the trouble. Rig

full o’ Deus. “Sho

gwine fhx dis mess.” Spit


in tragedy's good

eye! “This one's called. . . .” Jig

ger gogglers then bow


housefully. They clap.

“. . . be misundeeeerstoooood!”

Hang notes high or deep,


make my tongue a bow—

what's the gift?! My good

song vox? The gift?!?! Jig


gle nickels from deep

down my craw. They clap.

I'se so jolly! Stood


on that bank. Body

picked over, blood E

rato! Braxton's sweat


y brow syndrome®, spit

out a sax bell wring
a negrocious show


of feels. Fa sho, sweat

equals work. Bloody

inkpot of Body,


I stay nib dipped, show

never run dry! Rig

orously, I spit


out stressed feet. Lines jig!

Ha ha ha ha!!!! good

one [that/I] is, bow


deep but not out. Stood,

shining, dim. They clap,

waves slapping hulls. Deep


don't mean sunken; good's

not yummy, right?! Bow,

blanched with foam, jig-jigs.


“This one's called. . .”—they clap—

“‘_ _ _  _ _ _ _ _ _   _ _ _ _ _barrow.’ So much dep

ends / upon / dead_ _ _ _ _ _ _"; stood, 


I, on that bloody

rise of sweet Body;

there you is, too. Sweat


it, let's. They clap—“Rig

ht?” some ask, post. Spit

tle-lipped: I said: “Sho.”


Douglas Kearney

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