ALL RESPONSES |
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a song comes, an older
song, filtering into room
a face turns, know it is
her heart, lungs, kidney
liver, spleen, handclap
of gypsy, footsteps slide
comes the eyebrows
silence, she says, can
be language, there
is music down here
are you listening?
someone is singing
the sun into our lives
take me, let’s dance |
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she said, whisper
words, kissed
my cheek
so cold the wind
froze her lip imprint
onto my skin
i rub it for luck
i remember all this:
her hands like bread,
her fingers holding bread
crumbs spilling down
her white sweater
everywhere i see her:
in clouds, a fishbowl
church bells, dark stairs
she is still there
in every moment, uncapped
in my hands, she is whisked
away by a breeze
like ash to ashes
hovering in air
with smaller things |
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Never trust a man
Who has a full head
Of hair. Ever. |
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It’s best to have at least a hint of a hue
blending into and across the triptych
when Daisy is primed to read scalps
after giving up on palms
before calling it quits.
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Because I see wild mustard returning to the hills and think of you
Because the blue hills are like the shoulders and slope
of your back as you sleep
Because for one sunset we sat on the rim of Bryce Canyon
iridescent in scarlet and coral to watch a blackbird
settle its ragged body into a crook on top of a pink pillar
and saw all around us this me and you
I think of you now at the jungle’s edge and miss
the way your body anchors me to earth.
In everyday life we fall into bed exhausted,
forget the other’s body in a country of dreams
but now I miss your underwear soft from
a thousand washings, the socks you still wear
from stores long closed.
Because I love to smell you naked after running
when you wear the light of freshly pressed olive oil
I miss the bites on your side of the bread. |
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My heart is machine,
drum beneath breastbone,
rhythm for improvised melody,
pumping life in, death out --
tireless muscle,
loyal provider,
faithful lover,
She keeps me running,
wakes me from dreams,
tells me
I am alive. |
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I have this sneaking suspicion
That the heart doesn’t beat
Like a drum,
But ticks,
Like a bomb
Place your hand here.
Tell me what will happen
To us now.
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What makes my heart go pitter-patter
early in the morning?
Is it your sweet, intoxicating presence?
Is it your warm, tender gaze?
Or maybe, simply,
I just had one too many cups of coffee.
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My heart is a liar
says I will love you no matter
the cost. Says love can’t leave
us stranded when it is
the bridge between us, says
romance is unnecessary, we
know the score
My heart is a lyre, wants to sing
all day even when it is splintering
into fine pieces, wants to make
hymns and praise and alleluias
even when no one is listening, wants
to croon a country ballad, wants to
screech a metal rock anthem to lust
My heart looks for love whenever
it is not busy thrumming, throbbing
sighing, my heart wants us all to
remember we are as smart as
blessing, as dumb as desire. My heart
says I will love you even when you
leave me and most of all when wrong
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the poet speaks
to them from behind
his invisible moon
they become
the answers
to his prayers |
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Salt stains even the finest of automobiles.
See, we are still cleaning up
After Pompeii, mouths incapable of
Holding multiple vowels simultaneously,
Choking on the shadows of memory,
Squinting into the bright lights.
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Mr. Valentine hung a heart in his closet,
a closet stuffed with leftovers from a play.
He pretended it was the sun, beating,
a red throb crouched in the musky dark;
stunning. Mr. Valentine stared long,
while his own heart beat loudly
in his chest, his veritable chest,
not one made of wood and glue.
The magic happened while staring.
His heart flew with love.
From love comes story, all things
worthwhile, both sad and happy.
Imagine. An unemployed heart,
employed again, lifted, turned
on, not quite concealed, his own
scarlet, hot, and pulsing heart.
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the man is in an empty room, a cracked heart
in his hands
his arms are weary, but there’s no place
to set it down |
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A man takes a test. Research---
to find out what knots up his mind
when he sees a shiny, cutout heart.
He ate it out and hung it up
when he asked a question. When
a woman answered NO.
He knows precisely what caused, &c.,
without seeing a thousand other
possible implications. Which is why
he is attempting to control the shape,
the color, weight, position, fantasies,
daydreams and fabrications.
Next time, he'll have a jump on
the study, on the next sweet heart,
before he has understood how far
off the wall this one dangles.
He is an exercise in concentration.
And he's aceing this thing, no problem! |
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you were right--
I couldn’t
sleep--turned over
what love means
a million times
and could not
dream. and an
hour passed, and
then another
while I prayed
for rain;
you
mumbled, “i
love you,” in
the breathing
between reasons
and
the curtain
finally
let me
fall again.
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my brother
two operations later
has a reconstructed
valve
that still needs labor
my partner
in somewhat similar fashion
will probably need
a touch up
some day
my aunt has had four
heart attacks and
my mother may
I hope not
but there is so much stress
in life
that it cannot be held
by five lines
these people
are the largest part
of what my heart means
to me: extended trust
and family
if you can give them
longer days
without worry and pain
it does reflect
on me
send me the bill
if I can pay
no matter what
I’ll pay
and thank you in
advance for all the others
in this dance that can stay
a little longer
who light my path
until I pass away
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Looking at Love
Too much, too
much.
It’s backaway time.
Close the door almost
all the way
so only half a heart shows
hanging in the darkness
so only half a head
can read what a soul says.
Too much, too much.
Heart words scroll
down the page, dripping red.
Sit this one out.
Close the door completely.
Be clever with a limerick
or simply say
too much, too much.
Return, perhaps
tomorrow.
Or later.
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in dreaming you meet me face to face
underneath a soft and pulsing sun.
we tangle our limbs into vined forests; labyrinths of lavender.
some time before noon we rise with towel shirts and rose petal hands.
make ourselves cry with the salt of our sweat.
in dreaming, we forsake the normalcy of life.
we strangle ourselves in passion’s endless cords.
from one end to another- for you-
i’ll sign over my need for control.
in awakening I meet the mirror
it reflects a shard of life; gray plastic, fake wood panels
and knee-highs that always fall down.
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I am listening to the quiet of an empty page. Listening to white; blank, clean and bare. I will not write about sheets hanging on the line on a spring day, nor about how crisp they dried, how when I climbed between them I smelled the air of a world arriving, smelled leaves opening and flowers about to bloom. I am not going to tell you how I wanted my arms to be petals, my lips dusted with pollen, how if I could I’d be a poppy, papery and red and I would grow anywhere you planted me.
Cut me and carry me in your pocket. Put on a heavy coat and button up. Walk now as dusk settles into shadows, find a field of snow, windswept and barren. Wait until the world stops. Wait until the crows leave the trees at the edge of the field, watch how they fly like a psychedelic dot to dot. Wait until the cold settles in and you are as white as this page. Put your hand in your pocket now & find me.
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I remember days of charging spinning silos,
not on equine mount, but gasoline steed,
to rescue wailing maidens from imprisonment
or worse – transfiguration into table fare
fit for politicians, actors, and billionaires.
God, how blood charged the heart
and painted cavities with scripture,
sending armies marching, tanks and copters,
with missiles bristling on the flowered prairie,
all in the sacred name of northography.
A thousand ships? That's nothing.
I gave you a million suns, roiling pits in vacuum,
typographic oceans for your frigates --
Existence! As aortic. As venal. As systemic
response to the onslaught, bodies piled higher
than heaven, lives taken at birth from mothers
in trance, screaming in whitewashed barns
on northern plains in the long night.
I remember nights like this, without sleep. |
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Too late to call the bomb squad.
What can they do but encase
Me in foot thick steel
And back away slowly,
Stethoscopes trailing
Like feather caps doffed
In deference,
Collective breath held,
Ears muffed.
When the ground shakes
Point your eyes skyward & watch
My confetti heart, my tickertape heart,
As it flutters around your feet. |
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it’s never too late for the bomb
squad, pal, even if you were
a close personal friend
of Jimmy Hoffa and threatened
with a concrete life
i was left in a corn field once, knees shaking,
hands impaled on barbed wire
all this for once admiring
a certain woman’s segments: calves,
thighs like endless walls
and me groping & groping
her long legs, stubborn
but afraid to look
for all this, i almost died |
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the shape of everything I want
lies beneath still ice
rubbed smooth
by the river’s flickering breath,
air bubbles trap its plaintive pleas.
Some take the shape of eggs,
some pebbles, some pennies, some
hold prayers--gorgeous
under the slanting sun
& just out of reach.
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Will we
link fingers
into a box joint,
or choose the
dovetail, with its
smooth interlock?
Perhaps the half-blind dovetail,
mechanisms concealed at the end;
or the salmontail
with all its implications.
Tongue and groove
can only last
so long,
and the rabbet and biscuit feast
is a temporary joy.
Reality says
cope and stick,
and if the cabinet wobbles,
keep shimming.
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I Don't understand Tao
or Zen
or Jesus Christ
Greek philosophy charms me
Germans. complicate.
I understand
salt on the tongue
wind in my ear
cat's claw rips my skin
scent of basil, garlic
hands in cold water
warm wet tongues
buds in April
compliments
absences
nothing |
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there was nothing
outstanding about
her features
middle aged
nondescript
monochromatic
shades of beige
when she would recite
classic poems
there was a flame
in her eyes
and a rosey glow
illuminated her face
she said she wasn't
a poet
and i wondered
just how long
that could last
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Those pieces you lust
For belong to my wife
His sister
Their daughter
I knew her in school
She was in my grade.
The letter J always
Came too soon
In the alphabet
For my liking. |
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My thoughts of you are all in disarray,
Like papers swept from the desktop.
Order and truth sent flying, falling,
Settling silently
On the floor
Of recollection.
Time will sort them back to proper piles
Of suspicion, wonderment, and bliss,
Where memories like to linger.
But if you walked up my stairs right now,
With or without a smile,
The only order I’d know is your beauty;
The only truth I’d know is your passion.
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school prom refused. better
things to do. dorm kisses.
taut against the sheets.
room-mate leaving in a
huff. tickets to Broadway
and a tank full of gas.
wanted that dress more
flamboyant than the
prom gowns, more
outrageous than the
bell-bottoms, the stolen
boy clothes from my
brother. red satin
smoothed all the way to my
platforms. one long slit
up the leg, not much else
even in June chill in New
York City, sparkly purse
and no need of lipstick
at all. we were so
young, then. I wanted
that red satin
poured over my
flesh like cranberry
juice over ice,
the burn of vodka
all the way down
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with props to Julia & Alex
The shape of what sky I can call mine
is what remains when the mold of
house and trees has melted away.
My sobriety is the shape where ice
meets whiskey, the shape of
its coursing dissolution
through my gut.
So yes, the shape of me
is the leftovers from
what I have lost in my search
for you. Answer, and I will call. |
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Collide
I’m not going to apologize
for what I’ve done to your fingers
how I make them itch
how I tempt them prod them
tease them to find the keys
and tap out words
to the beat of your heart
as it collides with every
letter and punctuation
can go to hell because I
don’t want anything to stop you
to slow you down fuck
the comma
do not be distracted
by her curves
I want your words to crash
and burn a hole in my heart
want the remains of them to smolder
want to wake tomorrow
& find the smell of their smoke in my hair.
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We're getting to the heart of it now
the cross of the matter, the life.
We are joyful and in despair
because we don't understand it — how
could we have missed it, there
so long? We are husband and wife
now, thought they'd take off no ring
if I were to die — but you
could follow me down death's lane.
I know it in dreams, this thing.
I know this spirit, this pain
it's where I came from; I go
back into what I was — into
the spaces between your breath.
You are at the center of me
and I am walking into you
like a child's morning, so lovely
and familiar as death. |
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he doesnt know how to love pretty
doesnt string romantic shadows over coffee
or conversations --
sitting away in a blue gray silence
and he stares --
remembering my movements
and mannerisms,
the way my lips move
and how i breathe --
so that when i am away from him
my presence
could float to the surface of his memory. |
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A brief meow
Silver tabby skitters across bare shins
Awakening with a smile in my heart
See her facing dresser mirror
Graceful hands gently combing damp curls
Glinting in sunlight
ringlets dancing on shoulderblades
Tiny droplets down her side
Beckoning me
I rise
Silently sliding from underneath covers
quickly crossing distance between us
Right hand glides from her ankle
up gentle curve of calf
Lips kiss soft concavity
behind left knee
Tracing outer thigh to left hip
Lavender and fresh linen fill my nostrils
flat of my right hand
caresses up to magic interface
buttock curve and thigh
Scissoring my knees
I rise again
Arms cross in front of her
She leans back
her neck into my kiss
sighs
Good Morning
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Yesterday I went to a new doctor
for my unending sinus infection.
He told me to take Benadryl and stand
over a vat of boiling water for ten-minutes
each night with a towel over my head.
I declared I don’t like how Benadryl makes me feel.
He looked at me askance and said to take Benadryl.
When asked what medications I take each day,
amongst others I enumerated St. John’s Wort.
He said poets ought to be depressed—‘tis
the nature of the beast. Like all G.P.s
should be witch doctors, I jibed back.
He diagnosed me ridiculous.
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But once a year
there comes a day
that begs no reason
for giving love. |
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Energy
designed to wound
or warm
to wind around hidden curves
and wander into private moments
To palliate or promise
They are mistrals that shift the heart
and leave us windswept -
waiting
Let me step into
the wilds of your words
wear them like lingerie
exquisite, reckless
Let me roll in them
molten
until they are no more
until we rise
in rapture
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We have all stood in the place
of grace, the human invention
of two becoming one
as Amichai describes it
or to shine together through the
darkness as Gingsberg would say
And equally we have stood in the place
of despair, damaging
after the gift of one-hearted joy
The flowers plucked, counted
in the pale hand, trembling
at nonsense: He loves me, loves me not
the Tarot cards splayed, the pennies
thrown into a well or perhaps
this is a female way of coping,
better than Valium
not as drastic as screaming
from roof tops.
The man wills the pain away
with bar stool skulking or taking
matters into his own hands, blistering
words, cold shoulder warrior stance,
have another affair, hide behind work,
work out at the gym.
But we can stand together in the place
of heart: I have been there,
I have stood chilled out in that rain
and I know, yes I know I will love again
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