If there is prayer, there is a mother kneeling, hands folded to a private sign. We recognize it. If there is a mother kneeling, hands a tent, she is praying or she is crying or crying and praying at the same time. Although it is recognized, the signals of it, it is private and no one knows, perhaps not even she, the content of the prayer, and perhaps its object. If there is a mother praying, she is on her kneels over some object, as one does not often pray in the middle of the room. One prays at the window or over the bed, the head bent slightly up or down, the eyes open or closed. This is a prayer for prayers, you know, a wanting something equal to a prayer, even though I am not a mother.
The American middle class...
The American middle class is screwed again but they don’t know it.
Politics is a gleaming nowhere. Žižek fantasizes about Capitalism’s
inevitable end. Reviewers want these poems to be more hopeful.
Love is obvious. She’s a tutu shelter leaning out! Love is miraculous.
She’s twirling quite naturally! We dangle our feet in a July swimming
pool. Shoots sparkles from our eyes—to quiet to quiet all our little
monsters. Street habits rear up. Any fire. Any quell. Who’s made it
to well being? The television projects hysterical grief. Brown women
wailing fall to knees draped over. We are only who we are supposed
to be. No moon tonight, dear one.