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RONALD PALMER
Subject: Matter(s): #6: Wombs

I purchase a fetus from a medical catalogue. Stuff it with sawdust: raise it like a doll: like a son. Ignore it: (you don't have to feed it!): no bother at all: drag it through town: on a coiled leash: his mind still works: they're rigged to keep developing: little machine toys: not like the Sixteenth Century: when men died before their memory: resurfaced like a bar of soap emerging: from bluishly-opaque bathwater. Perhaps I'll teach his tiny mouth to sing. Mold it into a little me: with all my beautiful potential: for constructing consumer pride. I'll prop him up in my front window: during the red and green light of holiday season. (Perhaps I will buy one for every window!) Each son a different color: the whole house will be glowing with sons: (O false passion of renewed life!): a stuffed fetus singing behind every pane of glass: (so many windows!): a different God program: planted in each tiny fetus brain: while my lover and I: are wrapped in a blue water blanket: (O holographic ideal world!) We'll be listening to each glistening translation of their wonderful orchestration: a song of forced: Capitalistic unity: marching out of our sterile American houses: Puerto Rican American: Chinese American: Japanese American: Irish American: Italian American: African American: Jamaican American: German American: Brazillian American: the long line of teetering fetuses: singing their pre-recorded message to the world: while my lovers mind is gliding against my own electric mind: I'm somehow still me: he is somehow still he: both tubes of our wet-flesh: dreaming of wombs.





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