Peter Ciccariello


Weapons of Mass Destruction

lift it out of the container use both hands—elbows at sides stretching agnostic bitters—against the rose blue sky of his temples—sheepishly I remember this child—with pants that could not ever reach the tops of the socks—with a metal banister rising cloud or a second floor—could not tell which—not ever wanting to find out where he put the closets—now out of step the grizzled—vinegar belted soy monger—left his home in the ozone leveled Jersey city—he grew up in once when he wasn't livid memory

Jersey from what I was told had no trees—just ropes hanging from the ruined skeletons—that looked like women's legs folded suggestively.

Speaking of closets, aside from a few mops—and discarded canisters of mustard gas—I knew he would call the buffoon—on the first go around besides what do—you expect to find where someone could crush your skull in a minute—and leave you in such a suffocated landscape1—forever with you calling after the diminishing back—of your never to be underestimated lover

alright. leave out the part of the closet2—you weren't there anyway and the only time you drove through New Jersey—there was nothing hanging from the limbs of ancient birds—just flight and nothing more—you can take this space now and put the—archipelago of your memory —inside its empty nest—all of this language is as close as you get to expressing deep skepticism——

1 (c. 1450-1516) —Iraq delivered its declaration on the weapons of Hieronymus Bosch who languished about with some of the most inventive fantasy existing twilight world of the late Middle Ages.——

2 there is no responsible explanation for the items that are in the closet least of all listing them as if you were on your way to the grocery store or locked up in traffic after a large public event had just let out with everyone gasping for air and trying to touch you.

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