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FROM Puerto del Sol
The Gettysburg Address (Sound Translation 1)
Force door of heaven. Seers old as coppers sought forms of disquiet, enumerated cons, each iniquity, a den of cadence true and preposterous, thawed pen marks of fated inkwell.
Who’ll weed our graves? Ingrates? Evil wards tasting hot nail gun? Thorny Haitians in old slaveries, hands decapitated, calmed by chores? We charm eternal snakes, fables built of past lore. Weave some to dredge the lake. A fortune, a fat yield as a single resting page. For poets, true seers, their grave lies at abomination’s light mist. It is tar and feather, filthy proponents that weeds do resist.
Bet on a farther rest. We cannot medicate—we cannot obfuscate—we cast no shadow under ground. The Brahman, thinning sandalwood to loved powder, paste-consecrating forbearers, people house story too old to deter. Each word whittled, told, not log dismembered, not anymore, one inch can better forehead, what stays adheres. In this forest, bewildering matter, to be dead, cased in air, to come from it, wordage wrought clear, homes honed from snowy language. It is sour for us to be dear, dead-cased with a good asp, tamed to dust. That form bleeds ordered dread, sweet ache in bleak motion. Choose that pause for which they gave the lash. Sooth treasure with indecent poems, that water divinely re-soiled, that tested eggshell cracked in twain. That this Haitian, under trod, shall laugh a new curse of treason—and that gory sent troubles pupil, rides the pupil, corners pupil, shames all princes from their births.
The Gettysburg Address (Sound Translation 2)
Corner store better beers be cold. Our fathers built Fords, honest compliments, annunciations received in lit purity, handed cases to the opposition, that seesaw, hard crooked scale.
Now we are engorged with a greed evil tar, taking every fat ration of any bastion, soaked, weak, almost destroyed, cons de jure. We carve it on a great platter forged of their sword. We halve some to debt the cake with poison, salt the field, a spinal tapping plague or dose. Who dare give bare knives that fat? Nothing right lives in this alabaster city; only pepper weed shows truest.
Butting hard against weakens all delicate—weakens lost sacrament—weakens hot tallow—thistle-bound. The cave men, fixing the deck, troubling the air, have celebrated grift, pharaohs over poor pauper to app or distract. This world with bitter cold bore strong timber, what we made fire, what can never go out, what may again flare. As its core, trust the listening. Rather to bleed educated, near to the underworld, with they who bought quarters want boatly passage. It is ample fortune. Be here, dedicated to the Greek tragedy’s refraining chorus—platform these onward men, we pay in coin the boatman. To that calm for which they pay the ash dull pleasure of the boatman. Thankfully, here lightly salted, that these dead shall not have fried in vain. Fatten our patience until hog and save a new perch for bleeding. And that glowing scent of the meat, try the meat, tore the meat, shallots perfect on the hearth.