ALL RESPONSES |
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With gentle passion, I touch the barrier
stretched between my pleasure and your pain
where they meet nervously
on the skin’s surface, alert to danger
or the fingertip’s softest stroke,
but you reveal no trace, only business.
I release, you breathe, your breast
rises and falls with tides
in a cycle of faith and reason
on tip of thirsty tongue,
a flushed expectation,
its pale flesh swallowed by allegory. |
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nevada was tall and lean
plain
narrow hips
shapeless long legs
she wore flannel shirts
over t-shirts
loose jeans
barely hung on her waist
the thing i’ll
never forget
hidden from
the world
surprisingly
two perfect breasts
the size of soup bowls
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The water rises slightly,
removing her wedding
ring from her finger
Later, she will give
an account to her twin
of all her sins |
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Red curtain peels open the folds of its skirts
Wearing women for boots
Studded with pearl buttons
The furnace is hot
The one handkerchief
not nearly enough. |
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Fifi and Sharona, those lazy-eyed bouffant beauties, big hips
bursting outta jungle-print catsuits, Virginia Slims-a-blazin' --
bumbling up and down the strip, Travelodge to Circus Circus
and back again. The thrill of the hunt, the kill, buzzed on Amaretto
and adrenaline. Buckshot laughter bouncing off the pavement
when Fifi stumbles, Sharona wags a fingernail, mauve and plastic --
Girl You Know Them Shoes Ain't Sensible -- takes a drag, flicks,
crushes the butt with the heel of her own six-inchers
and waits for the light to change, from green to yellow to red. |
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The black black silk of mourning gowns an unknown luxury until seen upon the Fourth’s back. A woman making off with love. Her would be husband torn to see her go so quickly into the tomb.
A mind. A face of stars brought down in coronet. The halo of advertisement. Poor Henry moans. It would be kind if every king could know these woes. It would be king if every dame was greater than God’s blows.
Bring her beauty in repose to the grande chapel. Wash her hands with myrrh. Is that right? The procession of kingly change anointed by her day then night? Wish we all could be so free, to forget everything for love. |
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In the end she remembered her garden,
the ruby red spikes of rhubarb, pushing winter into spring.
The tight fists of peonies, the ants that accompanied them.
So she could sleep, her bedroom window thrown open;
the cool scent of earth, the soft sigh of wet branches,
the broken moon upon her face.
She is ash now, fragments of bone.
Her hair, her beauty, her soul
in flames set free.
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They must stand up tipped.
Their nipples measure a fatty
pinch between thumb and
forefinger. They must be shown
open and unabashed
in some woman’s eye-windows.
This is a delicate business,
as delicate as drinking tea
with the little finger raised.
That littte finger means, “I
only take from a china cup.”
That little finger means
the entire future depends
on the grandness
of a young woman’s breast. |
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Your dreamlife
is a mystery to me
I see you squirm
and squeak in the covers
next to me,
red hair across the pillow,
and was that a moan?
You dream life
shrouded behind
somnolence and red velvet,
If I parted those curtains
and roused you with a pinch,
would you even want to wake up? |
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In front of the crowds
I touched you
coldly
like a painting in a mirror
ignoring the blood in your veins, the heat
in your nipples.
The absence of feeling was false.
My stoic expressions hiding
the surprising heat of ice
sliding down my spine.
I melted my fingertips on you so
many times before that
I no longer remember
what winter feels like.
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we keep such straight
faces
when shrewd hearts, hands
and even souls
are tweaking one another
behind the fence? |
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Pick a knife off your carpet.
Suck two dry fingers like
a wood tongue depressor
-a mash of dried apricots,
sawdust and saltines.
I'd gag up a fireplace.
Hang a dead cat of vomit
all over the side of
your green tablecloth.
Leave a knife at your feet. |
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Fiddling with
humans is
unlike
text massaging
(Message Sent)
Technolo, gee!
of indecent, see
despite not having
keys
these hands believe
in on demand
(Message received)
Body,
have I bereft
you of service, left you
silent and dead?
No!
Each press alone has
charged your red
places;
your face is
more expressive
than
your phone
(Message sent)
Yes,
your smile alone
is an arch
of information
bent
more divinely than
a
wireless spine
across the back
of our network
(Message received)
do you believe in
in self-owned
love
or the next kind of dove
a text without word-wing
a single signal
a cell-phoned peeling
of mended clothes
a nipple without feeling
(Message ended)
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your eyes
are whispers
behind
closed
lips
needle and thread
to
bear
a child
as
ribbons f
l
o
w
through
your hands
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When you come out, wet hair and a towel
to the kitchen for your morning coffee
your eyes brim with bliss
and I find it hard not to kiss your wet hair
and yes sometimes slip a hand under
that white cotton
my fingers sliding over one breast ...
I am not kissing you only then
framed in a window of mist climbing up the mountains
but the dream girl behind your days
sitting quietly at the fire –
because as Goethe said, those you love
you should see not as they are
but as they would love to be. |
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She grew up
in a house with
sheets over the
windows. When
she was nine
she bought an
old American flag
at a garage sale
and hung it over
the window in
the bedroom she
shared with her
sisters. She
pulled it tight,
anchoring it
with thumbtacks
sequenced meticulously
in red, white and blue.
Her first apartment
had just one window.
She spent nearly an
entire paycheck on
red, taffeta curtains. |
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What Mom imagined I was doing
is hilarious and disturbing.
Right there, in front of gods and
neighbors we didn’t know but
apparently wanted to impress.
In our single therapy session
she crossed and un-crossed her legs,
clutched her classic handbag,
enormous to carry
toys for my sister’s kids.
I asked why she didn’t warn me
when I turned nineteen
that my first serious girlfriend
was a psychopath.
Truly proud blue eyes met mine:
“Your father and I made a
pledge not to meddle, right
after you kids were born.”
I didn’t know how to respond.
Bet the neighbors didn’t either.
The gods might have, but they were silent. |
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When we were children my sister and I
would play in the bath.
We'd talk of the men
we would love and the world
we would create. But now that world
begins to fade. I love her hand still.
I love sunsets, grandchildren.
The taste of sweet on the tongue,
the warmth of her hand.
Even as the seamstress of my shroud
works in the background
while I take what pleasure I can,
her touch. There is still more to come. |
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You would hold the key to my heart,
if only you knew it was locked.
You would climb the highest mountain in winter and
swim the farthest ocean in the dog days of summer
alone
if you knew I stood at the end.
You would do this for me in a heartbeat
and not even complain, until spring.
Instead you have walked right past me,
and on up to the limelight.
You assumed I was fine here in the shadows,
all alone
Waiting.
You can’t be both Godot and God. |
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To the painter she said, Henri gave me the ring, it's my breast, do what I say.
Paint it. |
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