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Autumnal

Adrian Blevins | Poetry

So here we go again with the fundamentally unjust Octoberness of August  
with the trees going so schizoid so early & commencing, thus,  
 
to really fuck with my need for more time to think whippoorwill & loon  
& even write that rhythm down like sound can murder death  
 
when really what this is is the 21st century & what we need is a real revolutionary—  
 
an “I” so subversive it’s a mute doing pantomime down at the rodeo  
or a dog with her toggle all jabbed out, her lunkybumbly muffle of a walk-on  
 
kind of catatonic & overloud yes I guess but at least not inaudible.  
Whacky maybe sure I guess but not doornail. Not deadfall. Not yet!