Wikipedia Poem, No. 603

jake brake mass transportation 
i hear their    teeth   am nude   
amongst blood who won't pay attention   
bucolic clangors suspend themselves           
behind     the slow rise     and    in their teeth   
hear       crickets       terror to   rise and        
the sound of commerce   jake brake   
mass bottlebells*   ringing some         
behind terror some afore 
some despise this consensual abattoir 
at september's end

       *to lie closer to rise      and earth   burial        
i am a nude acrobat   the atom        bomb   itself
immolate a given rod of hand      which aggravates 
prescribes the heel to their teeth   this           late in 2017
ununshod acrobat     part your dead         body 
hand which aggravates   the dog steaming to rise    
and prescribes a mouthful of lies   closer to our lips        
sweet then like earthburial   i am dying chic deplaned 
and of some uses   where ever i go to claim my flesh
there are entrances of spirit   but are they sweet like leaves
‪men stumbling       against the wind    to be subtle                
copper-nickel bonded bones here   nor is my posture impeccable           
like broadway bends   in the truth          i'm only           permitted 
one stumbling drink   into the dog's steaming mouthful   of fatherhood 
subtle copper  cup       i am dying to drink   to be subtle      
to heat this pushing against heat into his      authority as philosopher                
invincibly   man's lips   slight and strawberry sweet 
bones here?                     ‪men stumbling dark   of drink   locust         
or nevermind your fathers' bodies    spread wide amongst family    who      
is an acrobat   out of   clowning and survival    our instincts   trade
if we remember then   elucidate   didactic   and the atom bomb 
(itself   impeccable   a chic cliche   people still prescribe   imitation imepeccable)
i close my parenthesis to you   like a similie of   our dead's       fathers' bodies    
specious    connected undesired layer   elucid  give birth to me
nor is late       in yr fires   specific people         hear crickets pulse 
who        is the slip    frogs across your lipstick-on-tossed-off-marlboro 
not them behind you     not the truth i'm only permitted in for a moment        
not some broadway imitation       the room wringing its hands   fucking 
a mouthful      of thought       a corsaid of discovery
nor is it       slow to our lips       offering the atom bomb 
itself-immolate in the       rod of fire