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No to Angel

I started to dream awake
It was beautiful—as I
to chant an old poem
on the edge
      of dream

Slip past the border. I have
      always been
this poet.
      calling me to know
multiples of now.
To hurt the political

      Or would you

Come off the
chair sir. Ask the chairman
      to come off . . .

You have gone past your
      dead lover's marker.

      stay same

who's sane (same old
ancient Baghdadian pa) . . .

Skimming over dreams.
Walking the way
long way to go
                   . . . a lot of things
I badly wanted not to be
There was an angel I didn't
      care for . . .

have never
      trusted angels.

I found one of her white
cylindrical hairs
      dyed black

finally knew
she wasn't relevant.
Songs and chants by the

to us is given a drop of
      your live beauty, to
feed us, who are the poetry.

I remember he caught a pigeon
and stuck it for a few drops of
blood. To sprinkle on the
ground, there in that dream.
      It was
in another lifetime.
As beautiful as
                a raven, a fire, a

the word 'treason' takes
      credit for achieving us.
We have betrayed all your
in order to
be alive, after our deaths, in
      this space

      it is lace counter to scheme.

The first thing, in the
beginning, was the lie.
The motel for
      making sense
is where I

Everyone busy with dead
      hands/ voices/ senses

Dead sense swells.

Whatever you want that
      isn't a thing,
you can have.

No god. that's what I want.
Cloister of pearlized shafts
      (arrow luster)
amid a lighter green.
puts hand center of my chest
to say, 'there is a formal
      condition to
your body. Aren't figment.'

Clustering moments,
But you know when a

Seeing it through.

Alice Notley

Songs and Stories of the Ghouls
Wesleyan University Press

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