They’re Putting a New Door In


Brian’s new shoes. She asked me of his whereabouts. They’re
     putting a new door in.

CCI. They’re putting a new door in. Impersonating an officer.

They’re putting a new door in. Feliz Navidada. My watch continues
     to stop: self-identity.

     I break,
     WFMU.
     Margin time,
     the steaming metropolis
     wakes
     at 8 am
     with dry lips.
     I couldn’t take my eyes off the ball.

Papers on her head. Like a crown of spring thorns. They’re putting
     a new door in.

This is only the third poem I’ve written in 2001. And probably the
     last one. The other two went like this:

It hit with the farce of an atom bomb.

If there are no animals on Mars, is there anything that could classify

     as “shit.”

People are like ciphers. They say this, they say that.

Private life is a social experiment.

The French: an impatience with secular explanations.

Writing. Boiling potatoes.

Everybody’s pride is hurt.


And:


     Footfalls, bubblebaths.
     Hezbollah and hot dogs.
     Be sure to add these Tones of War
     to your arsenal of meters.   

—Brian Kim Stefans