No. 2
March 2005
Firefly Journal
Because the End Times Never End and Everything is Still Possible
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by Marianne Morris

Late riots to balm to on
the slippage of open; carelessly so. In them
are a searching to want for warmth
some better opening to pursuit to
only read more and less in
to the bargain. Our thoughts
insert first birth right
through that bargain, pact incompleted
halved bargain, one which is my
hand, hidden in the warm place of its
coat to be shook by the absent of
sight its power
withheld to go no further
down the road of analysis, its pain
the reason to walk or wake up its
life, called along a counter-top by
waste and paper media,
make that money
any damn she
way she” bump
against that
one with the implants
in your brain/arms. Invests her
self in. Tat-hangared battery rail is
budding pulse in the mouth, flower
as a kind of doom. Buttered
flies, hung up pinkened by
black smog coats
from tiny strings. Not to say
legs. Pin in to be
sicker. Scythe the streets
up along the replacement of hate with
hate, the save-me-song comes in on its
cue, to belittle and doom the little
rules we pin to, as we admire and run
along identification’s swift
card swiped over the forehead. The phial
of self-examination works
for some, breathing
outwards its sweat and gust.