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“Have your ghost meet my ghost in the room at the end of the hall.” A poem by Tim Holland.

the sand storms dune we hope sun-soaked beneath bare feet;
I dream of a collaborative tropical escape: run busted hand
up mended leg;
fuck it all away.
it’s a million o’clock in late February and the Sirens sound off
across the polar vortex.
i awake to an announcement coming over the intercom:
“no skin. i repeat, no skin.”

“Sands in South Armagh.” A poem by Tim Holland.

Hunger was good discipline.
As good as any other.
Intransitive: we starved as a people.
Transitive: you starved yourselves.
Distinction: made.
Next: “Non serviam,” spoken in the language of one of the two masters.
Abraham needs:
Food water oxygen shelter sleep
Next: no next.
Always be longing.
Belonging to hunger.
Self-actualizing: control by means of self-deprivation.
Still? ibid.
Love: easy to give.
Loyalty: in tact.
Thought: complete.
Companionship: infrequent.
Day 66 = Day 65+1.
Surgically repeat.
Not feeling
hungry, but knowing
Sleep: insufficient.
Strength comes from: N/A
Non serviam, Yes? No.
Scars visible?
Some: armies.
There are rockets in the South.
News: attended to.
War: (more) imminent.
The way they worked an gorta mor was objectively brilliant.
Starve them out of their land and language.
Mechanism: willingness and means.
Motive: land and resources.
And: pride of conquering our savage race.
What won: property, real estate, a feather in the cap—a new civilization saved from
barbarism and godless graces.
What lost: a matter of perception.
"In the end the world will break your heart,"
Moynahan said, speaking of the things our people brought with them across oceans.
Táim ceart go leor.
"Hunger was good discipline," another said, quoting the gentleman from Illinois.

"At least that if no more,"
Spoken through her eyes.
And for his, the near-blind Irishman spoke the long dead language—now graven in the language of the outlaw—with the skill and confidence 
of sawdust falling gently
and gently falling
upon the floor 
of the woodshed.

“Generator.” A poem by Tim Holland.

The drug of my drug--
begotten, not made--
a pause a cliff a bluff of my bluff
(d’ling d’ling)
ch, 1) the Knifeblade threads untold bellies’ buttons through buttons,
one after the next, to, he says harpoon god.
I consider
the foreskin gone of my forekin
gone agin.
I wander along the dark falls of your night where the light fists in.
there is a kind of magnetic ailment I rail against a kind of steel garter belt that wraps
thigh trembling
hand-thigh ordination,
all hail of yours;
ahowl of it,
a bloodless trauma of inbeaten hearts: poundless, penniless, and free.

Official Music Video for “Generator,” by Tim Holland.

“How to keep abreast of death,” a poem by Tim Holland.

How to keep abreast of death. if death be a point of concern.
misaligned is a good way of describing the detours taken by
what can more commonly be referred to as self-destruction.

as with the origin of all things, there is a gratification
to be apprehended, and we must we

the sand of our sand, the dirt of our dirt.
hope for no more [like bruises], want no more [like broken bones].
ache for no more [like feeling—anything at all].

our clothes and hands are dusty
in the distance
in the shadow of psalms and songs from a long-ago-vacated chicken coop
“what is clear here?” one can only say, where once there was burden, there is burden no more.
burden no one else no more.

Lulu is unburdened too. heels up on the true birdens of night.
whores of all
all sexes and ages.
on every level there is a fragment of death—the early comprehension of
anxiety giving way to rational fear.

Lulu drinks charcoal in supine position. the blood-baron—the baroness—
scale the great undoing—the undoing of all things.

then: dig to find that which is underneath.
and then what
lies beneath that
we are a curious accident.
our best hope: to understand madness. insanity.
to differentiate it from what remains.

around the bend from where we sat as children chewing stalks of wheatgrass—
at the far end of West Street—is a treeless strip of land that dissects
the forest.
before we were born, the township named this patch of dry grassland “Division Street.”

it was earmarked eminent domain—the graveyard on the other end
of Division Street was near capacity.
the trees on either end would soon make way for bodies.

ours is an occurrence of exhaustion that falls outside of this. Barely.