ALL RESPONSES |
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Dodo bird, Dodo egg, Delightful
nothing to love about feathers
leaves stuck in table tops
Forget it, babe. You Pacific trap.
Drop the curtains, eyelids shut.
Pick on me until I'm mean again
Cup juggling laughter - hup, hup, hup
Downstairs, out there, past skin
stuck looking at the same dying women -
every day for eons. Dead, cold fingers
Nothing so natural. So awful.
I can't stretch it anymore
There's no caring, no consequence. |
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shake of leaves draped
through the air
settling like dust
on the old
hoosier cabinet
whose door never
did close quite right
even the flag is lazy today
and oh would he be mad
for me saying that--
might even raise a
hand like as if to strike
like as if he still could.
No matter.
Sunday last they passed the plate
and he thumped the bottom
with his thumb and winked
but I know god don’t let
you in less you knock
with all four knuckles |
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The average child consumes 92 pounds of sugar a year, four thousand French fries, 150 hot dogs, 1002 glasses of milk, millions of slurps at the water fountain, trillions of gulps of air, 365 tubs of bath water, countless pencils and pieces of paper. That nondescript child is responsible for two carbon footprints, one degree of temperature adjustment, the slaughter of cows and forests and the decline of water levels in oceans. That child, who is nothing to write home about, watches five hours of television per day and utilizes two pair of sneakers per year. That unremarkable child requires rides to school and piano lessons, impacting the cost of oil per barrel. None of this is the fault of the child and I did not mean to say any of that. This was supposed to be about sugar, how horses love it, how it dissolves in coffee like a kiss, how sweet the world is when strangers nod to each other, when hand touches hand, when change is palpable in the pristine autumn air.
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from Wallace Stevens: After one has abandoned belief in God, poetry is that essence which takes its place as life’s redemption.
He says the words to me from memory
in Spanish--
Dark Night of the Soul
from St. John of the Cross
after pie and coffee
after the others go home
the sisters the daughters brother-in-law niece
after the ham dinner
after the living room circle of talk
talk of elections, childhood memories in the old house, etc.
after that
he is St. John of the Cross
Dark Night of the Soul
by heart in Spanish
harking back he tells me to his year in Spain
at the University of Madrid
and to Avila, and the wall
where he stood as St. John had stood
as Teresa had stood
there
in their blue sky
soaked in silence
as he now stands
in my small apartment in Austin
his vintage camry parked on the street under yellow leaves
his accordion in the black case by the wall
his knees stiff with arthritis
gray beard untrimmed
pills and brandy bottle nearby
after I make up the couch for his bed
after he is sleeping
I find Robert Bly’s translation of Dark Night of the Soul
I discover my brother
is in love with a nameless something
inside his own heart
a quiet burning not loss but gain
made clear to me there on the page
and when he speaks the words
in Spanish by heart
he drives away in the morning
back to his hermitage
in his old camry
lighting a cigar
his books left on the end table by the couch
his death pajamas hanging
in the bathroom
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Vang walks to the mailbox, raises the flag,
salutes it, and takes the paper inside,
where he reads about elections, wars,
and the faltering world economy.
He follows each move made.
Memories of lost ones are carved
into skin still tight on his handsome face.
They wrinkle in understanding.
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one bedroom
a kitchen i envy
one shelf
with pictures of themselves
as babies
a sagging couch
a glass topped table
multicolored floor lamp
bridal magazines
reminded me of those
early days
before we married
when things were sparse
and life was simple
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there is no breeze
looks like it's on its last flap
out after dark again
hung over
although it knows the curfew
is at sundown
decoy goose behind
the bins of explosive fertilizer
is afraid to come out
and with one snap
bring it down
grandpa forgot to take
a clothes peg
and a length of line
to help it blow
the night's cold damp away
when the cops come by
he'll pay them off with a few
packets of meth
from the nylon shed
they'll give him a citation
for negligence
against the stars and stripes.
he will tape the paper on the wall
of the nylon kitchen
with all the others
he doesn't bring the flag in
until Christmas and the cops
damned well know that
This is the USA folks
sticking its drooping image
square in your eye
if you wish to see any
old glory
look at the trees
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House in the Woods (or Things I’ve Heard)
Someone lives there. A blue pick-up
stands beside the shed, newly covered for winter.
Except for carrots and parsnips, the garden ’s
picked and done. Go ahead and knock.
Someone will ask you what you want,
may even invite you in to sit
at the kitchen table. Try not to bump
against the leg, you’ll spill the coffee.
If you get chatting, someone may tell you
Michelle’s black and red dress means
the color of oppression and Obama
has a chip planted in his shoulder
by terrorists who intend to turn him
into a robot-puppet to do their wishes.
Someone may laugh at that, saying,
but that’s ridiculous, those chips
will be implanted in all of us,
by banks so everyone can see
how much money we have.
You, the listener, have begun
a deep furrow in your forehead,
a mouth that drops unnoticed,
a body that jumps up even without
the strong coffee someone serves.
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Billowing in wind
the red stripes, bold and sassy.
They erected the pole right after
9-11 when everyone wanted
to prove their patriotism
by clothing the dream;
now just a part of the landscape
forgotten most of the time.
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My mother stopped sleeping
when my brothers were gone.
Korea,Vietnam.
When Anne-Marie drove through Normandy
we stopped at the American Cemetery
so I could thank the spirits of men
whose same air I breathed as an infant.
Thousands of flags, acres of crosses,
last century’s graying teeth.
"The French in the north—they're still grateful
to the Americans for what they did in the war,"
Anne Marie said.
"My parents lived down this road on a farm.
They loved the Americans when they came.
German soldiers stayed in the village
but they were kind to my parents.
My mother and father don't hate Germans.
They just tried to keep on farming."
"I excuse myself from war,"
one poet wrote but I can’t do that.
My brothers still scream at night.
.
So I thank the artist who hangs a print
of an oven in her living room,
the American sculptor and Polish women
who crochet rosettes in Potsdam
and turn a tank into a garden,
my friend who writes stories
of women in political prison.
I thank those who make spaces for light
without hiding what happens.
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The spruce has overgrown into an unsightly mass
No quarter for needful things beneath
its heavy bows
Gnarled roots suck the ground dry
The garage was resided about 5 years ago
It hides the cancer well
Outbuildings beyond the trail of sight
haven’t fared so well
The ’78 Chevy Silverado stands ready,
waiting on the rain
It’s been awhile
since there was mud enough to chew
Old Glory wavers under a greying sky
An impatient breeze blows
ahead of the storm
The mail will be late again
Just down the street,
clapboard lies where it fell
a couple winters ago
The tavern still turns a pretty good business
I know this place |
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grandpa used to say that everybody was the same--just some skin with bones inside. I used to believe him, thinking, “yeah, those gophers out there don’t need jesus.” and then we would sit on the porch, grandpa with his row of Old Milwaukee, me with a tattered pack of cards, and he would smile tar-yellow teeth at the sun, and wait for another rodent to stick its head out of a burrow.
the .22 sat between grandpa and i, waiting for a finger from either of our right hands to tickle her trigger. waiting for one of us to pick her up and place her propped against a shoulder, grandpa’s still ready for anything after fighting in the pacific during W2, mine sore even though she was just a twenty two.
“an american flag in a body bag,” was how grandpa described the men who fell back then. i don’t know if they even had body bags. and lord knows the gophers will just sit in the entrance they die in, until they disappear or dry out. grandpa dried out a long time ago. now all he has to fill his time is drinking and trying to discover new ways to tell old racist jokes.
so grandma knocked the front sight of the .22 a little to one side one week. grandpa’s eyes were glassed over by then, and he blamed anything but the rifle for his constant misses. slowly he began to blow away, a little bit more with every round he fired. weeks. months. never could figure that old man out.
one day he presented my mother with a crude painting he had done that depicted a busty, blonde white woman in a red dress being chased by a black man. the black man had big lips, blue jeans, no shirt and a pair of suspenders on. I didn’t get the suspenders. after him ran an indian, in a headdress, also bare-chested and waving a tomahawk. grandpa forgot to address that the white man had raped all of them.
grandpa died. cancer of the throat. grandma goes to Vegas some weekends, but more often than not she sits on the porch, looking at a pasture overpopulated with gophers. the .22 is rusted. no need to fire it. poison eats a rodent up from the inside same as the sun. I am dried out too. only wondering how people live this way--tucked pocket-watches, thumping for a short while, ending dull in wit and sharp in opinion. |
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If he paints his pickup
the very same blue
as the field for stars
flying in Old Glory
If he uses his guns regularly
practices on geese
or some ducks
or whatever else he can eat
If he plants a bush
under a salutable flag
out where all will see
just feet from the street
Who will worry about
a boarded-up window
in the attic
and Gro-Lights on timers |
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The eagle stretches its bony, featherless neck
Over high, unblinking black eyes
Discern the wooden duck.
You might fool a wife or the mailman once
with your tucked away grind
maybe even twice.
Smelling of sandalwood and primrose
the letter arrives in your mailbox at two
and you are not home -
she stops splitting wood, calloused fingers fondle
a crisp envelope, written carefully, in a woman's
hand. In that instant, she knows
what she already knew about you.
Studies the fall trees as she walks back
up the drive, drops your letter into the old well.
Tomato skins are thick this year, she thinks
lifting axe over shoulder, must be a cold one comin'-
she hums under the hollow crack of axe forcing wood.
Sharon Staum
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The truck is there again,
parked almost out of sight.
Its headlights defiantly staring
straight ahead. |
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“Free breakfast for Vets”
at the HyVee Supermarket cafeteria
serving 6-11, as advertised
Not so like the chow line
in my Cajun Mess Sgt’s hall
at Campbell
[I miss the man’s pies - hot -
and a la mode and
always good
for a friendly afternoon visit
from the station Colonel]
but reminiscent
what with the SOS and all . . .
hash browns, scrambled eggs,
bacon and sausage too
served up for you
[a bit much in the
cholesterol department
for these old soldiers
but do they care]
and plenty of well-made coffee
Red, white and blue balloons
orderly, at attention
above the tables
I’d rather flags
though I’m not one to wave them
No uniforms
No ribbons
No badges
No tears
an occasional cap on a navy man
and me in my black beret
in a booth in the corner
[there must be a purple heart or two
hanging in this noisy crowd of chests]
I wonder where he served
I wonder where she served
Proud
Wave it today
after all these years
“Here, take a long-stemmed red carnation
home with you - and thank you, Sir!”
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Now you see it, now
you don’t, says the magician
politician; freedom is
his specialty:
pick a card: a credit card,
a green card, a debit card
Now, close your eyes
and think real hard
Applause
The magician saws
us in half: red and white
and blue true colors separated
and distributed.
Don’t be nervous, he says
as he ties the blindfold,
picks up the knife
and walks twenty paces.
It’s only a game.
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Forget the feel of skin warmed by the sun
consider instead the work of sheep-- to grow wool
to follow a path thin and worn.
Come Friday, as the moon wanes, picture
the cliffs, the roiling sea below, picture the moment
you’ll leave this earth
as dust or fairy, as wind or song--
but never like the sheep, never following
the one in front of you
so closely you cannot see the edge,
the glistening stone, the curve of the earth
and the bend of a knee
as it tries to step backwards
onto a tuft of sod that is
no longer there.
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I used to bartend high atop
East Madison Street Hill,
pouring tap beer
at a Wisconsin tavern
where the corners wouldn’t bite
and foam sat at the bottom
of glasses like puckered gloss
Bob poured many of these beers
down his experienced throat;
he was a VietNam vet, had blue
eyes with that sickly-sweet look
of shame
Bob always held a cigarette,
and after enough beer
heard the hot gush of rice wind
and wire-sharp voices
He told me he shot a DaNang
man once simply because he was
a DaNang man
He talked of olive skinned women
and having sex with them and
pouring gasoline on his genitals
afterwards, just in case
He talked of shooting cats,
and rats and young village men
all in the same breath
Bob did not know trauma,
he lived trauma
Bob was trauma
History can be as patient
as patriotism, can pare patterns
of incidents,
soften what was once so violent
for those lucky enough
to survive |
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for the generation who elected Barrack Obama
She’s had enough of failure: she snatched her diploma as doors
closed forever behind her class, so tending bar was all she had
to save for more. Before the banker bolted, he foreclosed
their farm, and neighbors bought the rusted corn and fungus-
blighted wheat but wouldn’t bid on the corpse of their land.
Her father blessed their loyalty but asked them to buy, acre by
acre, what they could, so they could leave and make a root-less
life of something else. Her family left in the pick up truck
but she stayed on another night, reluctant. She wants to go,
she wants a rite to mark her years, twenty-one—they’ve set her free
of all but friends, her regulars, so she sets them up, the usual
drinks and jokes, as they watch the TV, for the future they cast
separately and together. It’s coming on, a deepening blue,
a horizon like the sky that followed June’s tornado, a merciful
light that reveals what’s left, a house, the tomatoes, neighbors
rebuilding each others’ barns. Though many backs may lighten work
you can’t begin until you trust it can be done. The winner,
the president elect, is not the one their parents said they’d vote for
but somehow they choose him, and she thinks, it was us—
we made them swap the past for possibility. His face is sober,
it isn’t time to smile, it’s time to set one foot in front of the other.
At daybreak she waits without fear to hitch a ride, holding her guitar,
like a baby or lover, with both hands. Her road is older than the nation
she hopes for, better than a ride to somewhere. It’s work and she’ll do it.
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My father’s quietness is a loud bell,
ringing reminders that he can’t tell me what he feels
he doesn’t say the things I want him to say.
Dad volunteered for Vietnam, a young man with a degree,
a brown-eyed boy from New Brighton
a twenty-something who must have had dreams.
My fingers haven’t touched tarnished medals,
my ears haven’t heard names-
my father’s ‘Nam is mystery.
I want to go to the party,
feel the sweat on my mother’s palms--
see his eyes upon my slippery entry.
The bell keeps ringing
how history steals from us the ones we love,
and the worst part is how they are still here.
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The flag stayed up overnight.
It couldn’t be helped; he was far
Too tired from celebratory beers
To take it down,
Treated to heroic status as a vet come home,
On 11-11.
The early dawn’s light, tinged gray in
Icy air, awakened and reminded him of
The pride, the satisfaction, and humility;
Seeing stripes and stars out there by the truck.
And woke him also to the sight
Of all the neighbors’ barren poles,
Unbuntered porches, flags stored away,
Another holiday over,
Now another work day;
Postal service resumed.
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So they go out for coffee.
They sit by the window and watch the leaves
drift and beat against the glass.
Then the wind pauses and flags hang limp,
and cars move by on placid roadways
past plate-glass backwards script.
Something's changed far away that
has nothing to do with them.
They bore me so I turn away. Watch instead
baristas, professors, women in sweatshirts
and men in fleece. Who are these people?
The beautiful who stare for help then
bus their own dishes like the rest of us?
Contemplation becomes weary. Writing a chore.
Finally, I do not care that strangers
may be reading even as I type.
Something's different, but more remains the same.
The tables are misaligned, scattered
as they will become. They'll get fixed
but not for long. I sip coffee,
and think of what comes next
and wait for the wind to return. |
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Like a flagpole, long and lanky, the man on the corner
stands completely still.
”Shake my hand,” he says but no one dares to look in his direction.
The sign he holds reads gibberish but his eyes say something else;
they might explain how he waved off the scent
of the cardboard sheet he used last night.
All is well when hatred seethes like sweat from the pores of man.
No one will succeed in change.
faith does not churn like butter between unwilling hands.
But then again, Faith is overrated.
We crawl up the spine of Failure, each rung chips a tooth.
The man on the corner has a Chinese tattoo on the back of his neck
He doesn’t know that it means harmony.
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This is a response to the previous post about Hibbins. Britt said it couldn't be seen and suggested I post the story to this stimuli so people could read it:)
The Angel
I don't ever walk in a straight line.. I never have.. I don't know why that is.. My legs are the same size... My feet and toes look like everybody else's. It looks like I walk the same.. but I don't. I talk in a lopsided way too. Nobody understands my words... I try my hardest.. but my words don't sound like everyone else's. I am misunderstood a lot.
I'm from a different world and I know it.. Well, I'm not from another world.. but I'm special. When I dream I leave my body.. I have pretty wings made out of light.. I look just like an angel... and I FLY..
All the people I meet are just like me.. We are all children in the sky and we laugh and play... Once I met a little girl who said she was 950 years old. I believe her. It is our job to travel the earth while people are sleeping and bring peace to them. This sounds easy, but it isn't. It is very hard work. The farther I travel, the smaller my wings become until it is time for me to float back to earth and wake up one more time.
My daughter says my dreams are real. I believe her. She is the only person on this planet who understands me when I talk. Do you understand me? Do you know me? I know you.. Every night I wish you peace. You don't see me, but I see you.. with the eyeballs of my heart.. Your hearts have eyeballs too.. Did you know that? :) We might not all talk the same way or walk the same way, but we all are children.. We all can see.. We all can listen.. We all can fly... |
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Jeezus
loves the GOP
and me. My wealth, my pride
the precious seed inside
(He gave to me. Not you.
Or you.)
You
Towelheads and heathen-sympathizers
Lovers of terror and unchristian laws
that retool his compassion and charity
to strip gilded rules that once favored me.
Still, god’s mine to define
and right or wrong
(but never, ever left)
my faith stays strong:
Jeezus
loves the GOP
and Me!
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Silently rehearsing what he would say, how he would say it, right down to the inflection and emphasis of each word, he watches the forest disappear on either side of the road. He feels the dark void of the night sky, tastes the claustrophobia in the back of his throat. Still, despite his night blindness, he maintains his speed. He focuses on the swath of light cutting a path through the black curtain surrounding him, a tunnel leading in one direction, north.
Hours later, as dawn’s fingers pull back the night, his tires crunching on the gravel driveway; he finally slows the car.
A quarter-mile later, rounding the last curve, the house comes into view. An American flag, hanging limply from the standard in the front yard, refuses to wave. The truck is there, parked almost out of sight, its headlights defiantly starring straight ahead. Turning off the car, he sits rooted to the driver’s seat, listening to the motor ticking loudly as it cools in the fall air.
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I am glad that this dying body I live within traps
and protects the spoken, the wants-to-be-spoken,
echoes and seedlings of sound, and also the dream
in which a bird with wintertime reservations
in the Yucatan swears to return in spring
with gifts. It’s the old story of the sojourner
and the homebody trusting the most resonant
voices within. It’s how we make it through
the coldest days. The note the bird gives me
to carry in my pocket reminds me to crawl
whenever I can, to protect the underside, hand
like a shield of last resort, stomach more so than
my brain the part of me that remembers best
what my mother has always told me, that
I was born blue and drunk, and only the doctors
thank God knew what to do.
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i circle them like a predator
stalking it’s prey
it seems the only time
i do it anymore
is around the holidays
when i need gifts to give
my sharpener is ready
and i have a little brown paper bag
with replacement colors
on top two new sketch pads
i went as far as to take the
pencils out the little bag
and held them
i have the strangest affection
for them
i hold them like jewels
this holiday it will be still life
mostly flowers
my sons brought two new
girls into my life
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I’ve finally transmigrated from the adrenalin-fueled, red-shifted intergalactic flight of Friday night’s poetry festival in Minneapolis to the workaday gray ambience of southern Minnesota. One moment, drinking wine straight out of the bag, squeezing it for every last, tender metaphor, listening to the ocean in an empty glass – the next - cornfield stubbles, a day’s growth of beard, a yard full of vinyl scraps, Styrofoam and leaves that have graciously turned to dust. I remember bright lights in my eyes. I remember a sleepless night in a hot hotel and the four-egg omelet at St. Clair Broiler the next morning. It’s a blur, but a very sensual blur, messy with potent eye movement and wavy brush detail. The memory won’t go away, burned as it is on silver. It won’t go away.
Like others, I wish I had had more time to socialize, to join the conscious river in which the schmoozoisie swim. Here’s an idea – next time, I read and everyone celebrates. We’ll bring in sand and potted palms and call it a fuck winter party. Swimsuits required! At last, I’ll be able to wear that Speedo I bought in Europe in 1984, and read Rilke to an audience -- in German. No tanning salon, just freckly me. Would you pay for this? No?
A member inquired as to the financial success of the event. And the answer is: Yes, we can do it. And we’ll do it again. The objective was to present poetry to the public. Was it accessible? Accessible? It was free! How accessible can you get? The turnout was good. The donations were good. I felt that everyone who came to listen enjoyed themselves. Now – Moses Murray on guitar, with his superb voice and lyrics, provided a vital hinge on which the event turned. We were presented, I think, with more quality entertainment than we deserved, considering he donated himself to the cause. That’s why I ordered his CD here: http://cdbaby.com/cd/scottmurray. Just so you know, if you really liked his work.
Come to think of it, for those of you with books to sell, we could start a web page for purchases. Hm. Why didn’t I think of that before?
I thanked a lot of people Friday night. The audience, for attending. The readers, for reading. Linda Back McKay, for providing very valuable knowledge. Diana Lundell, for critique. Joel van Valin of Whistling Shade, for his contribution, and for providing his excellent journal to the public free of charge. To Brooks Doherty of Pike Magazine, for his support and for injecting vital creative serum into the public corpus. To Bianca and JAR, and Diana of Intermedia Arts, for their superlative support. And, foremost, to my wife Peg, for her assistance with brochures, and organization, and planning and putting up with my weirdness, although she admits I’m not too weird, just a little bit weird. Usually.
So. I’m thinking about the next reading. I’m also thinking that I am preparing for another corporate buyout in my paycheck-job, one that affects the bottom line. The next six months could potentially be very active for me. Without getting into the intricacies of my professional life, this means I will look for assistance in running Northography. I will write up detailed documentation and train volunteers for two-week stints as webmasters. I’ll still lurk in the background, in Quasimodoesque fashion, but you’ll be able to tap into my carbon-based network for assistance. For those of you who wish to play the role of Dr. Frankenstein, if only for a fortnight, this is your big opportunity. Isn’t that right, Igor?
Any takers? No?
This also means the next reading may be somewhat spontaneous and informal. Maybe not with Speedos, but quickly assembled. There will be a musician. There will be words. Maybe I will read something from The World’s Smallest Chapbook. It’s so small you can’t see it. Your feedback means a lot to me. I fed you something, so feed it back to me. Tasty. |
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(off topic as usual)
I walk past the university grounds, the west wind pushes against me. If wind has an edge, than this wind has pulled it’s cold, razor knives on me. Even the tall remaining elm and lindens bend to the edge. Halfway through this gauntlet, I realize I am a firmer oak, unyielding to a western villain. The leaves move in my wake and I find strength growing behind me from shadows in the east. I am not alone. I feel the warmth and breath of my ancestors trailing behind me. They follow, in a long wide triangle behind me, my flesh at the peak. They are holding me up, reinforcing my countenance against the invisible blades. I recognize some, but most are a first meeting: Oren, Gottlieb, Apollonia, Julius, Mary, Benny, Pauline, Clarence, Daryl. The warm of sun is gone but I feel their light on my shoulder. I do not need to face them, they are there. This stroll home, this everyday walk, not so alone and lonely, not so cold, the blades become rubber, dull. As I stride past the lantern globe in the front of my home they too go home, into their doorways of quiet and calm.
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Of course the air is cold while I am
hustled off to yet another room, but it is perhaps
the fasting, the emptiness, the terror
of machines who look like they could
gobble me up in an instant. The stories
you hear. The rumors of mistakes made
that might cost your life. Of course
my knees are trembling and I feel light
headed and lost, of course I made
the wrong turn, wore the wrong socks,
had on a bra that didn’t fit any more.
Of course I had to squint at the paper
bracelet they were about to slip over
my wrist like it was my link to
safety, what if they mixed me up
and cut the wrong side, gave me
the wrong pain reliever? But I
also pondered that hospital in
Oaxaca, the dirt in the corners,
the lack of English, the old
people hunched over in docile
obedience to the doctor-god
and I decided that at least
in America, I could scream red,
I could threaten to sue, I could be
as blue as heavens waiting for
mercy to blanket me with relief.
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My name is Ann Tilley
I am so cold
and tired
of the endless pitch
on this wretched ship
one day soon, I won’t awake
We have no flag
no country
no clue --
dreams replaced by desperation
we have become animals,
void of manners or generosity
My children are strangers, ragged
and wild from hunger
From a distance I watch my husband
with the other men
bent against the sleeted rain
sick with defeat
I look for even one familiar thing
Watch as others do the same
but see only hard surfaces
that scrape and bruise
And the young one,
so pregnant she’s likely to drop
before nightfall
I wonder where we will lay the infant
riding relentless waves
in this wooden box we call Mayflower
I pray I live long enough to see this new land
that has cost us so much
This stretch of earth that promises freedom
and dignity, opportunity --
peace.
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the change is coming, blowing wind,
the poet troubadour sang about this,
we were children, impressionable
and spoiled by abundance
for the first time
since my classmates were shipped off
to die in an illegal war,
I believe in the country
listed on my passport as mine
though I tried to renounce it,
left a bit of myself
in foreign ports, trains speeding
across borderlands, the custom of
silent Friday nights when traffic ceased
instead of zooming to the mall
and beach-side extravaganzas of
stomping dance steps, flamenco cries
enlivened an evening meal
now docked here, in a land
I did not want, did not claim
each diamond a reminder of loss
of limb and life: chains of
human misery. each bite of chocolate
a poisoned grief, children
bent and hobbled to looms to weave
by hand the intricate rugs that will cover
the floors of mansions
and plastic toy manufacturing
breaking the spirits of young girls
condemned to die in barracks of hunger
this is not for the weak of heart
this is the story of our freedom,
crops picked by strangers whose
names you can’t pronounce
whose children might inherit what has been
forgotten: equality and liberty for all |
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This must be what’s it’s like
floating inside the red balloon
of a child on a windy day
when the balloon is let go
by its string and carried
over and beyond small cities;
it might turn cats’ heads
in curiosity as it climbs blue,
becoming a speck on the dusk.
I’d like to nail my sex
thoughts to the wall
next to our bed,
study geometry with you
and measure things that have
never been measured:
the coastline of the British Isles,
the reverberation of snare drums,
the downdraft of a chimney, or
how long it takes for me to catch my breath
watching you sleep every morning.
Our ending will no doubt be tragic—
much like a paralytic poet
who can no longer find the images
to communicate this life
to the next. |
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I waited forever hidden between the truck and the house,
eyes glued to the mailboxes at the curb,
yet, today again, no letter came from you.
The last one was nice and somewhat censured,
too much of the good and too little of the bad in your life,
as if you did not want us to worry about you.
Time has gone by too slow
and even though the grass is still retaining
some of its summer green,
the brown leaves are falling.
This is the second year
you'll be gone for Thanksgiving...
We worry about you,
dad does not say but I see it in his eyes.
Did you receive our package?
I hope you'll like your presents.
I added a couple of new t-shirts,
candy bars, and a few magazines.
Winter will be here soon and our souls are growing tired.
We wish you home to celebrate with us as we used to
even though we know you’ll never be the same.
I hope the nightmares have gone from your nights,
truly though we can’t say the same.
We dreams of soldiers coming to the door,
a flag folded over a coffin we hope it isn’t yours,
a child gone lost who isn’t you.
This year again,
while carving turkey and serving pumpkin pie
all sitting around the table,
with the sounds of the chime and the wind blowing
we'll hope to hear your steps again outside our door.
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I’d like to say I don’t remember
taking the red crayon and slashing
my parent’s bedroom wall
I’d like to say I didn’t enjoy the way the crayon
skated across the smooth plaster
broke the pale yellow into two
I’d like to say I was too young
to know better, four and regular with crayons
that when my mother gave me
the benefit of a doubt, I took it, gladly
and that when she painted over it
we could still see the division
I had made, the line drawn, now pale
pink that broke her wall into before
and after, above and below, the horizon
thin and wavering, the point beyond I still seek
and that even though I know better,
it is a line I’d cross again.
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The sky was a faraway crimson,
almost marmalade butter you said
But I don’t remember
I forget how to stitch these memories together
as if they were but a dream carousel
turning under the slow burn of a poem,
tearing the fabric gently
And I don’t remember
who wrote down the words |
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