"As I thump away on my delete button each morning, I find myself pausing at the poem that says it will rid me of poetry, and I often feel I'm being offered a glimpse into a kind of M. C. Escher print in which the iterations continue on forever into some golden braid of mist and meaning." --Pantaloons

Brush Up Your Censored. (via wood_s lot) --I have to say, this is the scariest list YET.

Losing America.

'Well? Does the pallid metalloid heal you?
The civic, incendiary metalloids,
bent over the atrocious river of dust?

Slave, it is now the circular hour
in which your two auricles become
guttural, quaternary slip rings.

Mr. slave, on the magic morning
the bust of your tremulous snore
is seen, at last,
your sufferings on horseback are seen,
the good organ goes by, with its three handles,
I leaf, month after month, through your monochord head of hair,
your mother-in-law cries
making little bones out of her fingers,
your soul bends passionately to see you
and your temple, momentarily, marks time.

And the hen lays her infinite, one by one;
the earth comes out beautiful from the smoking syllables,
your picture is taken standing next to your brother,
the dark color thunders under the bed
and the octopi run and collide.

And now, Mr. slave?
Do the metalloids work on your anguish?'

----Cesar Valleo, The Complete Posthumous Poetry, tr C Eshleman (1978)