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Ain’t nothing more beautiful than a French diplomat in an
Italian suit discussing the intimate ties between
poetry and constipation with a United States
Senator in a discount blazer from the Men’s Wearhouse bought
especially for the occasion of proposing the
Anti-Chimera Act, a prime indicator that if children were
once the future, they are not the past, which is growing
hairier every moment, so as to keep us from
penetrating its insides, which we must nibble on as if
nibbling on donuts, by which I mean rubrics, glittering
rubrics in the dry heat of an empty test bank full of
raccoons with flexible snouts and long tails that
materialize in the shrubbery as thick-set stocky
fraternity brothers suicide bomb colleges full of free
thinking mavericks with tuning forks in their ears and rubber dicks
in their pockets, a veritable cure for loneliness and
its side effects, including the desire to fantasize
about mythological genitalia in the pants of
pundits who declare that to be alive is
fundamentally okay as long as poets test their
verses on guinea pigs before submitting them to us
humans as we exit the amalgamated marshland of
surplus value and enter an ordinary evening on
which ordinary people dream of lubricated condoms
for dogs, of mules who practice the pull-out method, of birth
control pills for cats, of floating trousers that haunt city squares
in search of red-walled boutiques where silk stockings and boot-cut
chinos fight for the attention of disembodied legs
while merchants masturbate, aroused by visions of painless
castration, aroused by hands without arms scribbling conjunctions
into dusty ceilings, aroused by hands without arms stirring
infinite bowls of soup, aroused by module-makers who
insist only on the metaphorical value of money
as represented in the hieroglyphics painted on the
walls of financiers who accumulate capital through the
unjustified sexual behavior of adulterous
women who appear asymmetrically—legs over heads, hands
coming out of butts—in public ceremonies in which
syringes suck out erroneous feelings from their bodies
while suits and ties stuff bones and ears into decorative
bottles and jars.


Daniel Borzutzky, “Sentence” from The Ecstasy of Capitulation, published by BlazeVox Books. Copyright © 2007 by Daniel Borzutzky. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Source: The Ecstasy of Capitulation (BlazeVOX, 2007)
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