ALL RESPONSES |
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what makes us think we can do it better out there
than we have done down here?
It must be the absence of weight
that makes us forget the crushing black pressure,
that viewed through a window looks violent
in its density,
a defiant aura of flame blue atmosphere
about to flicker out |
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Looking out of a window.
Dark blue eyes look back at him, from behind a white veil.
He doesn’t see the turmoil in her soul, her heartbreak or poverty,
But a beautiful woman, rich and full of wisdom, mother to mankind.
As the sun sets, she looks up at a point of light moving across the sky.
She will hold on to him as long as she can, but knows that his hunger grows
Beyond her capacity, and, like all children, the day will come when he must go. |
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Looking back
manhood-aspiring
for a moment doubted
the folly of his ritual ascent
far and away
from the glowing source
where warmth and wholeness resided
Stripping off
the tenderest tastes of being
like body’s weight tugging
at harpooned breast or
skin pared
from the most delicate part
Baptismal agonies
dressed him
for the bloodwork of his future.
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First time up, the cameras caught it round and blue,
and still they go---they even have a floating
dragonfly, out there. Death-defying space walks,
to mend its tattered wings. But if they take pictures,
no long-shots. All the president's men love old film.
Wing the carrier home, then release a reel of any past
perfect three-point landing. Any other message
might spook the citizens. They make a mock-up,
on a movie lot. Backdrop from the 1960s, when Earth
looked blue and lovely. Like a bright glass paperweight
blown by barrel-chested men from Italy, Bulgaria.
The Chinese reel out imitations now, soot rising
from the hidden alleys of Beijing and Shanghai.
Opium of the People, from the scarlet poppies
of Afghanistan---the grey-green veil that will not
float away in time for the Olympic runners---
chugging through the atmosphere, bound for London.
Our bronzed medallion---wan, after a long illness,
like monumental sculpture, tarnished, tag-sprayed;
underpainted green, overlaid with caput mortuum. |
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(For Glenn)
When through the round window
Earth was never flat
Moon out-jumped the cow
& A star strummed his guitar
For a girl who growled on his couch
On a Sunday afternoon
Make the window bellybutton round
To remind us how to find our way back home
And we'll christen this ship, April May June
For a wildchild chewing petals in the garden tonight
Barefoot and silvered in a bath
Of satin moonlight |
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Let's not talk about the cold
or how long the nights are--
as my friend Lucie says
the holidays are just a ploy
to keep us all from killing ourselves.
Death is not so far off, the silence
of the street, the dim light of stars
even the moon has turned its back
on us. And now, with only epiphany
to celebrate, we are left to our own devices.
Maybe we should be like those wise men--
show up late, wander for weeks with frankincense
and myrrh, hang with shepherds, listen for
the angels singing on high. I'll meet you
in an hour. We can go find our own god.
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Major Tom floats
in a most peculiar way
while grounded to his surroundings
by what he views through the portal
and dreams of the earth being green. |
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A woman watches apples
in their wooden bowl
from her perspective, one
apple is shaped like a heart
on a sidetable, a pitcher
of ice sweats clear beads
next to the pitcher, table salt
holds ghosts of our missing links
within its whiteness
outside, in January, ice crystals
grow like tiny lenses
all around our planet
its orbit promises resurrection
for our sins
and even with the wind
covered in echoes
of the past year
God still trusts us |
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it doesn’t matter if the window is round
square, rectangular, octagonal…
or the pitch black surrounding
the mirror within the mind
a watchful eye transfixes on the roiling
beast below…
waiting for our little tragedies to play out
So small,
So insignificant,
stars are born and then they die
as you and I wait for each day with hope in heart.
i heard a man say “THIS, is the first real war of 2009”
and I thought to myself-out loud no less-
“isn’t that a lovely fucking thing to say” |
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Cosmically speaking
An uncommon molecule
Here we ride a globe of it
Ignoring our luck
Or perhaps reveling it
Whoo Hoo!!! |
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Branded: like a cow
on the side of my hip.
Like a small burn mark, I can stick
my finger in it.
A wound that shows time as it stretches
as flesh around it loosens and curdles.
We cleaned out your mother’s convertible
that day, singing and laughing
scheming and hustling.
You had cut a hole in the top,
to steal a gram and a 100 from
her purse.
They must have gotten in
through the slits.
Poured like thunderstorms
into the damp shadows of the car.
Later that afternoon, my hip went numb
we couldn’t figure a way to ignore it.
We sought white walls and
chubby smiling nurses. One leaned over and stared,
said a brown recluse had bitten me
as a black cross crusted over the scab.
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It’s January 5, 2009, and
I have to tell you--
A funny thing happened
on my way out of Aldi’s tonite.
I carried honey, pretzels, butter, macaroni.
As I maneuvered my cart out the door
a rat scurried in, nibbling his lower lip
with his two front teeth,
like they do.
“It’s a beaver,” said young woman with baby,
boxes and bags, looking incredulously over her shoulder
as she parked her cart and retrieved her quarter.
No, it’s a rat, honey.
A fat rat
at that,
maybe a sewer rat.
You’ve got to give the critter credit
for using the front door—
no skulking around.
I wanted to follow him in.
“Butter’s down at the end in the cooler, $1.99.
Block cheese to the right, $3.50. Eggs 99 cents.
And here--here’s a plastic bag, it’ll save you a dime.”
Later, checking email at home
I found an invitation to a January 20
“Bienvenu Barack Bye Bye Bushie Bash”
from a friend fond of alliteration who
years back had accepted my charitable donation of
Betty Benner’s Better Basement Beds.
Two thousand nine may have started slow and icy--
Minnesota boring--
but things are looking up, I have to say.
I almost don’t believe that rat.
And I look forward to the party.
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How lonely in the void, avoiding
intelligent life too small to see.
Still in my hypnopompic waking
dream, I remember time-lapse
cosmos dust, the roving moon, our sun
extinguished by other suns to an urgent
shadow star. And the red shift into far
time, but closer now the yellow, blue
atmosphere of earth, the mammary
cloud pockets holding ice and water
for a monadnock, the Devil’s Tower,
looming in the desert, notched
by hail now, meteors then, and iron
hammers of first Americans;
sedimentary rock so soft it holds
our feet in mud. I’d rather look up
at the sky than down on the curving
earth from a glassy porthole to infinity.
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palm fronds blistered white
a cradle holding child to mother
your eyes don’t seem to notice
elongating dust trailing your whisper
snow today, snow tomorrow!
the chasm widens-crackling the glass bowl-
between you and I
gently drawn lines:
elastic, malleable, penetrating;
dreams don’t last long in space |
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Launching life
By fire to float
above earth and tempest
In a tub of wires and surge,
Valve, pressure and tool
And a confidence in numeral.
A voice might last forever up here,
But who speaks of the poetry of
Astronauts who've returned?
The eye forever changed
That can never stop wondering
If they might just see their home
If they look hard enough,
Maybe even that lost memory
That flew into the depths below
To keep everything that's come before
And is still arriving
Company amid the clay and loam,
Like a seed that dreams of other planets
Thirsty for foam, for warmth and air. |
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Dear Gaia,
I am sitting at a table in a house in north Minneapolis.
The surgery went fine.
An invasion of the body but necessary.
I have a cane.
My body is trying to remember slicking in hot sun
as much as lifting its legs on their own.
It is snowing.
The snow outside my window is silent
and I am silent as well
pondering the twists and turns
that brought me to this season.
I want to tell you how much I appreciate the ride
and the wildness of your sacred groves,
tidepools and beaches, creatures from
the smallest winged insects to the stomping feet of elephants.
I want to whisper that I love you
even though you are gashed and raped and covered with cement and brick,
that your are as lovely to me with your blue seams of rivers
as the stars that are gazed upon as the next frontiers.
I want to confide in you that I need your caress, without it I can’t live
without it I can’t breathe.
I thought if you knew how much I love you,
you might feel a little less abandoned.
A little less uncertain of the impending shake up
count down to evolutionary extinction,
the loss of countless species, the grief you must feel
for the oil spilled death grip
the graceful limbed dancers
cut down to make us comfortable and smug.
I hope you can forgive us,
forgive me for neglect and irreverence.
I do burn the garbage when I camp out
but I feel helpless about landfills
mushrooming like cancer on the landscape
as if I can not say stop
as if I am just a wind in the desert
unknown to myself and lost.
I want to say that I am happy
whenever my feet wander in your streams or your meadows.
I want to say that you are beloved
in the language of earth, in the language of praise.
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The star I beg at night doesn't hear a song,
but the moaning of a soul that is still lonesome.
I look at you from afar as if from another world...
You, luscious planet, future, and history,
ancient primordial feelings I wish to rediscover.
I've been searching for the light
where heavy darkness settled,
and as the pale moon up there,
the one the night sky around me well knows,
you are as good as an unmentionable wish.
I found the universe in your eyes,
but since then and after losing you,
I have been a citizen of the void.
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Still Life 2
During the movie
i laughed behind
your hand
everyone thought
it was you
Still Life 3
Somewhere out there
is my shadow
beneath
this sky
You are why
I say my entire
life, why I see
an entire world |
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The difference between the porthole
and the womb is a little glass wall.
And I, among many, had enough
of enclosure after my first nine months.
I can forgo pretty landscapes when seen
from the claustrophobia of closet-rooms.
The sky looks better standing under it.
The nose appreciates the real smell of fish.
A large object, like the earth in a small
frame, closes the mind, rather than expands.
Give me a sycamore tree any day.
Let an owl swoop into a village
and light on the saloon. It’s Saturday night.
Boots stomp snow on the General Store’s steps.
The lights in the bank windows fade
one by one, off for a long weekend.
The clock knows only one time zone.
The fiddler warms up for the dance
and will play tomorrow in church.--See
how the mind makes the small large?
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From here you can see Vishnu and Lakshmi
in tantric roilings, her oceans lapping his
dangling subcontinent, his sandy arms
caressing the foam of her breast as
cloudy roiling blankets are cast away.
Tinman orbits to eavesdrop, Mercury
spying in a mission fig-leafed by science,
he records their couplings and
sends the data back to Houston,
where heavy-breathing scientists
peer into their secrets while the
Gulf of Mexico lies
languid, moist, and jealous. |
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The body as heaven—
Soft curves
and locks.
Living lip to lip, breath to breath.
A white mist clothes the land this morning.
The stars as torches—
Out where it is
always night
Or else that impossible radiance.
It is only the body that’s turning...
And earth as lover—
Artemis
of the forest
Chasing though leaves and the lifting mist
Playing the old game.
(to do this poem justice, I saved it to .PDF. Click here.) |
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Morton's never lonely. Not with Marshal and
Winthrop and Milroy near by.
Okay Vesta can be a pain, always worried
about her size. And Hector
acts like he's above everyone else,
which he is, geographically speaking.
But Olivia is just up the road and come
spring every bird wants to sing
her name. They sing Milroy instead
(the wrens) and the juncos,
before heading north have been heard
singing, Winthrop. Winthrop. Just the frogs
in May croak Morton, mor-ton, until
their voices, like the slanting sun, return.
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everything
is in
monochromatic
shades of snow
and ice
even the sky
is white with tinges
of gray
the street is ice melt
cinnamon
and my breath is
crystal
venus is pale beige |
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Still Life 4
There are stars
out
(dance halls
and weddings
bumper-stickers)
tonight
let’s remember
them all
Stiff Life 5
The window reminds me
constellations are only fingers
poking holes in starless skies
near a road where all
suicides are buried |
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sitting next to the boy
with isosceles eyebrows
we had a whale of a time--
standing off the shore
with binoculars pressed
to our pupils, being
taught about the nature
of things by a park ranger
who described how to pluck
the otter out of the morass
of kelp where he floated alone
in a safe bed of his foods favorite
food
funny how that works we said
and laughed, but tonight at our
table by the window, we watched
two house cats sneak up on
one another and shared two
dishes—pizza and roasted
veggies, and tried not to
make eye contact with our
neighbors. |
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I.
It’s me.
It is my life.
It is immensity
fitted in a pill-box
sized existence.
I.
It’s me.
So full and yet... so empty,
I can, can’t,
won’t, will…
eventually die.
I.
Me,
the one inside.
The one you look at,
but don’t see.
The one that I show to you,
but isn’t really there.
I.
It’s me.
History and mystery,
weakness and strength,
a little, tiny, beady bit of universe,
the one...
I’m stuck with tonight.
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The snow always reminds me
of fifteen and cross country
skiing after school while the light paled
and the hills deepened,
your shadow pausing for breath at
the hill’s end.
There is something to desire
in the absence,
the unattended long minute
when I have gone on ahead
to let my skis run off the tracks.
When the cloistered trees creak
and ache against the wind,
the softest sound of broken winter leaves’
hollow shaking, and
of snow absorbing sound.
This is what I have looked for again,
the loneliness of knowing I have retreated
by going forward;
moved to a place where you can find me,
very quietly ecstatic.
But you are behind me, around the
snaking path
and if I wait, soon, you will arrive,
all panting breath
and hatless,
ready to go on together.
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I am tired of words, tired of their noise
their insistence that they can say anything.
Want the soft sweep of snow, the shadow of a bird
the horizon tangled in branches.
What good are limbs that bend and break,
a body buried under layers of words, ordinary
and wearing, even when the moon rises,
beckons silently for me to follow-- I do not know
how to go quietly, feel compelled to tell you
how the snow is strewn with diamonds
how this pregnant moon in the eastern sky
swallows me whole
and in the hush of night
I long for a word of unspoken beauty.
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There is a coldness that begins in my gut, spreading outward.
I crawl grudgingly out of my cot, coughing and hacking.
Getting dressed, gathering my wits, and eating,
are, each morning, a monumental task.
Body and mind resist day's beginning.
I look out the window and shiver.
I don't recall ever feeling like this.
This trip was supposed to snap me out of it.
Confronting the cold, the vacuum, the horror.
Putting old ghosts to rest in their rightful places.
No. I’d rather hold you naked beneath thick blankets,
waking the next day to sunlight pouring from blue windows. |
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Still Life 6
old Scotch never--
I tell you--never
sings a sweeter story
than at midnight
under a windy moon
Still Life 7
“the look of love
is in your eyes”
everything else
will have to go |
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I am not afraid of drowning, but swimming.
I am not afraid of dying, but living.
I am not afraid of striving, but obtaining.
I am not afraid of falling, but flying.
I am not afraid of god, but meeting.
I am not afraid of loneliness, but solitude.
I am not afraid of emptiness, but filling.
I am not afraid of perversity, but compliance.
I am not afraid of getting wet, but desiccation.
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An orchestra of experiments
is buried in these walls.
It sounds like robots
chewing on hawthorns,
like rapid pedestrians
on sidewalks made of glass.
I cork my ears so as to stifle
the walled roar, but find
that my body still vibrates
strange noises, my guts are terrified,
and I am at least nine nightmares
from the place I call home.
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What’s so easy it seems
not’s so easy to see
for little towns’ one mile square
and your not knowing
where the One truth had come from down there.
Many churches he’d counted,
in all, the One had not been seen
and Science had shown him as dead,
what is left of the creed.
Pop goes the Atom drops
the pale blue sky beyond my range
within a clash of space and time
we are bound to bend the weather vane.
Find upon the field of light green sea
how youth’s white flower lies
its long life’s dream for you and me
and trace it back to Auroran sky.
Ccross your tight rope r.i.p in time
the radio plays your song
soon when flash that camera bang
down the slide we come.
He comes from Dakota
with not much k‘cept to say
we are bound like anyone else
going nowhere or
haven been somewhere, Yesterday.
He who thinks North and South are same place,
and because they are either,
then we are neither
and as for the same space...
what is truly wished for
is to be from somewhere else,
if we had to choose to Be... at all.
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Zeus himself longed
to feel Earth beneath
his feet, transformed
himself into that great
swan, swooped down
upon Leda, wings spread
wide to hide her from
the sky, his solid bird
body pressing her
to the ground, his terrific
thrusts and shudders
swallowing her rosy flesh.
We know this roll in
the grass, the deep
odor of the loamy
meadow, the rub of skin
against skin in inky
shadows, the warm, wine-
stained mouth moving
slow along the length
of the body.
Why would we wish
for wings, to be carried
up to the perches of the gods,
to surrender senses and peer
down upon the planet, its
pull calling our bodies
down, down, down.
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The chair is hard, the room cold. This is the price
I pay for falling in love with poetry. My heart
breaks from rejection and thrills at a slim volume
slid from an envelope, the pendulum swing
of loving poetry. The day has descended to
evening, an email or two, a meal taken
on my lap, the soft caress of breeze
dappled light, lazy grass-kissed feet
but not today, although a few steps away
beyond the edge of a desk canted to the slant
falling from a burnished sky. I paid that price
as well, rubbing eyes into dark circled
hell of a sleepless night wondering where
did that word escape to, that perfect one
that fit just right. These do poetry
take from my hand in rattling coin
of gold and silver, the best years of my life.
My beloved’s body and words and particular
manner of spreading honey on bread, these I stole for
poetry to own. The scent of rhyme, the rhythm
of the soul, the embrace of those who occupy
the tatters of my brain, “evermore” and “rage
against the dying of the light” beat a staccato
of purpose, of moments when all else fades
but the consuming fire. I fell
in love with poetry. She took everything I have.
She gave me back a shroud, an epigraph, a key.
She drank my blood with glee. And still I ask
on bended knee for yet one more.
Words. The chair is hard, the room cold. This
price I pay gratefully, to feel her breath
on my cheek. The price for loving poetry.
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Dear Folks,
All is night. Earth’s complex clouds ghost
in colors of ice and snow, which makes me think
how soon a space, without knowing it, can fill
with movement, the way a fleck of discontent
can grow like ink to the page of an idle brain,
how down there like grains of dirt tiny people
go about their daily activities, not knowing all
the while they’re under spectral forces,
and that at any moment, a foreign object
could descend from the skies, and blast
everyone to smithereens, the same as
any time air can stale, a heart run aground,
a mind give way and go biblical—
tear off clothes, hair, flesh, just to feel human.
But it's all good here. How about you?
Dad—hope your ticker’s still holding out,
and that everyone there is fine.
See you in the next orbit.
Your son,
The astronaut
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Even though I am wearing one, two, three, four layers on most of my body’s surface and I’m facing in a southerly direction and the sun is bright, so bright in fact I cannot lift my eyes from the pure white of the new fallen snow and the dogs are entertaining the way they run and circle drop and roll, jump to catch falling snow, the wind has lifted and it glitters in the sun, sparkles and spins, a small tornado funneling down to earth even though the dogs breathe clouds and their bodies are pure happiness I can feel that I am nearing the end of thought and words no longer make much sense and if I tried to think of something that did, it might take me until spring nothing really matters now that it is so cold zero seems like an
achievement.
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What was it that originally brought me here?
It was this expanse that inspires such fear in people.
The very people who believe God has given them all the answers;
All answers
Except for a definition of this expanse.
Fear is more vast than any riddling infinity.
I made a promise in my childhood
That I would have no fear.
Then I came here, looking past space,
Only to find
A frightening beauty
In the natural tapestry of her eye. |
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Night’s sky is a warm, blue robe.
It wraps strong arms around eternity,
the reality that I cannot escape.
During a particularly dry period of cold;
I am beneath blankets, as last year’s candle
winks from the table by the bed
that even the stars who merely brush
against his cloak
pop into life at the very touch.
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beyond pale stream small
leaf floating, unabridged
cosmos sees all tears |
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Crisp blue take-off on a January day. Could've been any airport - it's happened before. Today, LaGuardia. What kind of birds were congregating there?
Unwittingly sucked into the engines. Damn birds. Take out two from an unnamed flock and call it a bird strike. We kill
What we worship. Listen: “Two birds struck a plane” and “all are accounted for.” But two are dead. How many birds survived?
Who struck who? |
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Still Life #11 (Wake)
A former student died
last week-
end
wake is Tuesday
I’d rather step sure-
footed to a window-
sill and stare at pigeons
Still Life #12 (Iraq)
Is this how a good God
returns? This America
Land of the Free
even those few
thousand
casualties?
Still Life #13 (son)
He acquires wheels, plays
his own theme
song using spoons
At night, when he’s out
we stand under the same
stars |
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we should all do well to forget
that we are
unless we are sleeping
and then we don’t know
we are
emulsified dreams swimming
through undulating light
amongst drifting shadow worlds
melting lustfully like dew on a
blade of grass in early morning
we are imagination waiting to be
enraptured by what we are not
but maybe we could be…if only
we were awake |
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A new place to meet
To discuss and level ideas
Words wistfully blown about
Cut, added, approved
Who is this strangling before us
Said your eyes
That voice that was a vapor
Spilling into air then gone
Oh spring!
Yes, that’s him
What an odd boy |
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Everything rotates on its axis,
comes back eventually.
The science of revolution is
that everything is returned, sooner or later.
Human satellites that orbit around where and when.
Where my feet have touched on cold asphalt;
when my heart has been left on micro suede sofas;
Every atom I’ve pushed my body through
leaves behind a footprint.
Resignation then is only really the beginning.
Everything comes back eventually.
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* This is a reworking of my previous posting (it has a new title). One thing I did was unify the three stanzas (in number of lines) to give it some form. I'd welcome any comments (esp. if it feels like I've added too much).
Zeus himself longed
to feel Earth beneath
his feet, transformed
himself into that great
white swan, swooped
down upon fair Leda,
wings spread wide to hide
her from the sky, his solid
bird body pressing her
rosy flesh into the ground.
We know this roll
in the grass, the deep
odor of the loamy
meadow, the rub
of skin against skin
in inky shadows, warm
wine-stained mouths
moving slow along
the full length
of the body.
Why would we wish
for wings, why would
we want to be carried up
to the perches of the gods,
surrender soil and sensation
to float high above
this blue marble,
its thrumming pull
calling our soft bodies
down, down, down.
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knees quaking
throat seizing
i chance a furtive glance
at the dark void
where weightless
and unbalanced
by seeming motion
that has no
reference or direction
i see myself
senselessly adrift
in boundless space
teetering
toward the brink
of inexplicable ecstasy.
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