Laura Carter





Better a straw peace, the saying sweeps in and around the cold temples.

My machinations have caught you hooving the creepers.

I finished the 14th page of temporal social reading.

Hobble over the blue line.

I caught the sign.

I saved you a bullet.

Catch the siphon of my teeth. They ache.

Better a shaken fetter than a consultation.

Caught the last whiff of you this afternoon.

What a noetic monopoly!

Grant me escape for the ticking dog heart.

Just the armament of patrolling thrones.

We built this thing slowly.

I’m the disinherited miser.

Bulled over by the insignificant ram.

Recruitment brochures:

No conscription for the weak of brain.

The eye of a needle is this way.

The leaser warms the noncitizens for battlegrounds.

Reconciliation with the southeast, here, or there: the blossoming of arteries on wood, live oak breakling aggression not parted by lips of not close enough to the ministerial war movement to rustle the body’s appendages.

Pressure at the temples, defenders of the slow giving in fist and rubbler—beware of the sedatives!—

Beware of sedition!—

Cry for me, one last time, with the ought not—honor your father and mother to death—your own—

If I were Darwinian, I would tell you the wrong story.

I watch the buglike mince crawl in and over the sink’s rim.

Nothing sets here, not sun or . . . whatever else I’ve manned.

It’s a great thing to pull the ropes over inching cosmogonies, setting them in place with the loops.

My beneficiary will tell the truth.

He’ll be shaking the oranges down over missed effluvia.

Holding the brimmed hat sign:

Don’t pollute the emissary before his time—don’t tell yourself the phone is not ringing as in not ringing not ringing

it brims over the edges of slant and shuck.

Which characters become clear in absentia, it is not known, maybe the painted ones with slender edges.

If I were transcendental, I would tell you I’m not dying.

Hand me the black-edged slender.

If I were an ethnographer, I would bully it into the tent.

We are having the wrong conversation: begins with “sort of” ends with “after that fact was established.”

Because I have force I force the force of this image and that one too that one too that one over there with the nailed-down sink & sliding bar, silvering into the moon’s sliver.

Page One:

How to make the machinations more effectively deceitful and I am pleased to be reading this because this is the real thing right the real thing in a .pdf file.

Page Two: an image of the symbol that evades all symbol (is it a florette? is it the flower that died before it was snipped from the gin tree?)

Page Three: an image of your telephone in 3-D pointelle, a microcosm of dots & gin bottles broken in the crux of my toe.

The end of the play is a myth.

The back of the book is covered with blood.

My new sign:

Peace for the warmongers who.

Not who is who but the who of who?

The disciplinary man knows the answer, in blanks.

He shoots three rounds.

Learn to use the same talent, the back of the book says.

Learn to shoot blanks.

If I had written the book three times, I would have made the last time a mess of illumination.

It hurts to pretend the signs are still there.

I earn advanced degrees in them:

How to play the computer spectrum.

The way to the homestead mutiny suppression.

What happens when the intelligent girls want to be more than intellectual?

The fabulous juxtaposition of jugular and placenta.

The brooding appendectomy.

Eliciting the great debate.

Don’t call the man on me.

It came to a truce the last moment of proximity.

It’s too informal, really, for any sort of connection to the tube.

The alchemy of I know I know you well.

I’m full of wish and incantatory submetrics.

I walked a little ways with the both of you, I found you ready for the great disastrous filing scheme.

I’d rather be blossomed and parceled out than play this way.

New sign for the rovers: How to begin the plain game.

Dash back from the dead.

It’s framed with that godawful silver etch.

No support, no holy wreck of caught ticker.

I’ve been republished, again.

There was once a time when all that mattered was all.

On the floor of the cathedral the bees’ legs are stuck to the carpet where they perished.

My mother cradles them in the cardplayer’s toeloop.

Just for safety’s sake: Read my final sign:

Branded thus, with the circular enunciation of ego, but not without the daughter’s hand caught in mother’s thicket and water, not without the born son and cleanliness.

Branded after the fact of the matter that ends the last wish of the final matter that betrays the lie of the final shot of the final incantation that sounds like a thud of oxygen

leaving the brain.