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Poetry by Michael Neff
'If and or but' by Benjamin Rush Miller,
Chris Welcome, Shayna Dulberger, John McLellan
'5 Into The Abyss'  2007 X-8
'5 Into The Abyss' by X-8
Five Whales East

Drowned together for days,
blind as a nose of lung, we hate noise,

suffer emotion. Outside,
the dumb noise of spray: every blue and hump

sperming down to Far Tortuga, oceans of breach
untouched. Light is a blowhole wetting us.

Why not go deep, perhaps a fathom or two?
Conceal from me a harsh timidity. Bubble up

to baleen the algae of sky between the horns
of my thumb and forefinger. Your sea-self opens,

floppy as a body empty of bone,
every swim by Miami a shell-song and oh-yah.

The Exhibit (reduced 1000X)
'Inferno At The Guggenheim' © 2007 X-8
'Inferno At The Guggenheim' by X-8
Inconclusive provocations       bio-lit

the dull chute tent        of Emin's sex life,

1963-1995,       chummed death from formaldehyde,

loud zygotics       of ponder and bloating

species in the cachet       churn of Saatchi.

Out-split pigs,       there, lunch boxes of giftshopped face,

carnage assemblaged.       Do we mature by killing, stuffing,

or by creating offense?       Ofili's Ave Turd Maria

smeared before Leibovitz.       Now the frozen

blood bust of Quinn merged       and Bowie was not de-sublimated,

sniffing a proboscis of fiberglass       penis for $9.75
'Halo' © 2007 X-8
'Halo' by X-8
Anyone Can Be a Nomad
My face turns up to avoid you,
the moon coming down in bricks
and you dosing our need to
oppose before we can attract.
A few seconds of walk towards me--
arms waving, the chumming begins.
With your hands you align my head
till the relic man is a halo,
and you step back to observe,
all resistance mimicry.
Now a pagan lith below a planet
my lips nibble craters where your eyes are,
sip from an old gully of moon water.
I sicken of ontology and wonder fever
till your nipples pierce my cornea
and brand my forebrain: ordo vigilante.
The language we use is not a virus,
only a primal task of assumption and hormone.
When my turn comes, I ask you to perform.
You revert to a Czar Nicholas daughter
tending her pea garden of captivity,
coloring the earth red with hair.
We are causation and I am reflex.
You ask me to genuflect. I spell no.
My finger then portions the air like Keeotah,
tracing for you between the stars
a new constellation of frog with lute.

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last update: June 25, 2007