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LEIF HAVEN

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MITCH PATRICK

JON COTNER & ANDY FITCH

JERIMEE BLOEMEKE (FT. HENRY FINCH & JEFF GRIFFIN)

BILL HSU & PAUL CURRAN

CHRIS MORAN

RICHARD KOSTELANETZ

STEPHANIE VALENTE

JARED JOSEPH HARVEY

S.J. CHRISTMASS

MATTHEW D READING

#9



Jared Joseph Harvey, #9


Donít Touch Me, Donít Kiss me, partially gazed white
Ceramic pitcher painted in brown with black patina
Ground, 1945, inscribed ĎPitter Patterí on the underside but
Text intrusive running up the bottom rim, obtrusive scuffing
At the bottom rim edge, craquelure to the patina, a fine long crack along
The upper side of the handle, partial glazing inconsistencies
On the handle and the rim inherent in manufacture, chipping
Along the handle leading to a great deal of loss of the handle
Itself, all constitutes evidence of excessive malfeasance, promissory
Note accompanying:

To whom it may concern:
This broken tear bottle, tear vial, lacrimatory, tear catcher, lacrymatory, unguentarium, lachrymatory, whatever et. al., is not incorruptible insofar as I am
Designated unto it a priori its imperfect form[1], glazed it while cross-eyed drunk, entrusted to the Retarded neighbor boy an incomplete abacus for its measurement, and upon completion thrown it hard
Against An Ace punching bag, used its lip as a guitar pick, and posted it at the head of a pike
(like the head of any dead father of any enemy tribe) to swing at it with Old Hickory as I did
In the Tee Ball leagues. Into its voidful chiasmus I have periodically lent offerings of burnt
Sweet potato, Gerberís baby meat, oatmeal, useless wetlogged pith, letting each clot for days and then
Switching one out for the other, to obstruct all passageways of possible flow[2]. There ought not be any trace of any by now, hence the intermediary cleansing ingredients (lighter fluid, picnic fire). But you are dead, father[3]. I havenít cried in months now[4]. Sons are not amputations written by their fathers, but if sons are
Annotations, fine, but I will not help you make an argument. I will not fit those margins,
My margins are a big bang. Donít touch me, donít kiss me, Freud made me
Oedipal, Hot Momma, son of Goyaís Cronos time cannibal, and maybe itís a false etymology but
I still fear the Word. Father Menard was Wisconsinís first priest, but what if God saves
Big money at Menardís? Hang a left at Lee, hang a lee at Wright, I fear your encryption, I watch the Da
Vinci code with Safe Solar Glasses. I was manufractured, father didnít eat me, but the whiching hour, Junior, III, IV, V, Esquire, all the way to XII, the rough hands of a Roman clock, donít touch me, donít kiss
Me, faggot. The power of the word. I havenít cried in months now. Promise*











[1] Hence Davidís prayer to God in Psalm 56:8: ĎThou tellest my wanderings, put thou my tears in Thy bottle; are they not in Thy Book?Ē I will commit no calumny; His is a bottle holier than mine, and mine (tears) are already held therein.

[2] Maybe an exaggeration.

[3] In the sense of having felt slighted. In the sense that a son can disown his own father, producing a sensation somewhat akin to amputation, but wherein which the very severing act produces an emotional anaesthetic, the art of kiln-fire cauterizing your still maddeningly present arm.

[4] Maybe an exaggeration.