Robert Snyderman‎ > ‎

from The Poverty Book

FOR HILIARY SEPTEMBER 1 2008
         Fevered   cutter of holy hair.
 
      Somehow,                 I entered earning.
       Somehow,   I did not believe my body.
     Somehow,    I did not leave my body.
 
 
                                     -
FOR JANELLE SEPTEMBER 1 2008
Ambitious     hell teeth,   groomed fever, another
 
thinning meal           all day in sleep in sun.  Cold
       water    on my forehead.  Cold familiar   falling
 
                                occupation   war of little birds
 
 
stutter and vines of dust             stutter and salvation
 
that savior              search.   That stomach of noise.
 
stutter garden            under elusive water faller.
 
Ambitious burn. Ambitious permanance.
 
 
                           -
FOR ERANDHIRYAN
         of the mirror used by nearest
often,  Another hill side ways to walk,
and spit of the anger sun.  Never before.
These fingers are hands. Don't turn your
 
forehead towards that eye.  The white hair.
 
The rain of motion, and the mouth of growing
 
Pollen Hotel,   if the small wing.
If the spirits paint walls or bury wall
 
                           lapses.
 
The Mouth    I found with a fingernail pail
 
pale       eye   summer is not the time but
 
is the time of    the breath wont take
 
a way for the foot traveller.
 
                               -
FOR ANNA JUNE 8 2008
Okay death ,      I find three glass ears
 
            but okay death,  the loss of hearing.
 
If I was birth of the hair of the chin god.
    But my mother believes in The God.
Fingers of red sun.  Mouth of the mispelled
soil breath. The hazardous kitchen waits
like a death
 
FOR LOVE JUNE 9 2008
The Language of age tunnel. A burden of
 
bird strumming a   wink of the often a
sport of documenting, the street musician's
Hole Surgery, for with the visitations of
 
moneybackpockets I prefer to back door
security  depositweather, The storm mud
 
     confronts us or decenters o The exotic
musician, they sold his musicians along
with his selfportrait. The sex of a wall/
 
The New York City houses,   ancient wood.
Boats of the lip quotation riot. I run.
I run!  I run!  I run!  I run! I run!
 
 
 
 
   breath mountain, cross legged woman,
 
           the eyes of an expensive child.
Somebody give me a drum. Buy the forest.
The vagrant of the common story tellers.
  The cross legged woman bathed the apples
 
    I ate the appels.  Wind bodied me.
 
Me, Me, me.  I run!  I run!      Cross legged
 
women,  Feathers out of the non hair scalp
 
But long in the wind.  Spine Long. The f
 
orest promised my wife, .     I wear white
 
cloth and no hat to day, something drowned.
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