by Michael Borth

In the hour of 9

I cultivate the mirrorcore:

one spherical window to vast

worlds of self and pleas to reengage

with the populace. Their idiot homonyms

and perfumed secretions. Shadows pioneer

the towerscape of lighted office. In tapping

like a sewing machine in the loom of reflections.

For portraits of her in a small blue

Notebook. We will never live in the crumbling

air base on the coast of Uruguay. Situated in the

empire of increasing sand. Or the regiment of summer

ants. I will publish my works and greet some Idaho

bullet. There will be no sunset dinner with clams

and linguini. Fostered by the voice from the seams.

When all borders become one. Decisions of the

Barbiturate nocturnals. I remove the goldpowder

from the plate of cranium silver. To better evaluate

the heaving of the wind. Sketching its own civil war.

The networks of flame beacons lose their connection.

Burn like gas flares in Montevideo. In the smell of

withering plane leaves. Of semen and childhood metals.

The people are not to be trusted but measured and

disposed of by the pier cranes of memory. Nothing

Drastic or obscene. There are too many chromium

parlors in candlelight. The menu in grease pencil.

Nostalgia for the past I never knew but know better

than the dead. Amassing small bones and translated

text. In amber and dry earth regalia. Dancers of the

inferior mirage convulse from the snow blindness.

From elementals of the polar shield. In coming white

poppy. In yurt shapes of the ice plateau we are coming.

BIO: Michael Borth is the author of The World Dreamer and As I Roam The Life Cycle. Website here: The Coastlands.

the chromium parlors

an exhibition in crucifixes