Thylias Moss
And then I stood there anywhere at all wishing myself at Mac and Ernie's Roadside Eatery for one of Nayleen's cabrito burgers I want to be full of her goat jalapeno topped before I get back to God -------on with the detour------------- —as if one could detour from God —isn't that the major point— for the master skill in some of this I've seen them (would like to) crawl to Nayleen for a caprito bite Understand: this has something to do with her membership in a tin-roof league, a shack that couldn't keep out the gourmet* (*this word's on the same line — this is all ONE LINE — so the continuity winds a bit, but one line to the diner, the dive in Tarpley: population fifty, between Bandera and Utopia (I've had to tell everybody this (same line again) (crooked, lightning line), said it to Josh busy with his sutras that could have incorporated the caprito also because it changes you; bite into something, and you, and the something are marked, are launched further into a becoming than can happen anywhere, in the smallest cell of me, the nucleus of which is a sutra too, dead cells of me that seem frozen, crystal death —now isn't that grand (somewhere in me that doesn't care about hurt —anywhere in me that hooks up with the GRAND caprito That's it, it's becoming amplified, the changing, the transforming, the eating to fuel metamorphosis, my caterpillar of a voice goes in the microphone and comes out in streams like the amplification of luminescent blue-bulbed glowworms in a cave and nowhere else, the spectable of these blue-bright living curtains of bait and snare nowhere else, by God, all by God, under Him, over Him, right through His middle where I breathe the best air without either one of us seei
Editor's note: We don't know quite how she did it, but Thylias tricked the system into giving her an additional 15 minutes. She stands with Charles Bernstein as the only poets to go meta-muse on us. Anyway, you may read part 2 of her agon here.
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