ALL RESPONSES |
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A better choice, it seemed, with cutlass at my throat,
to join those bloody men and women who boarded the boat,
better to live than to die. Better to serve a captain than a king,
to fight under a flag that flies in the face of oppression.
Better than the muddy huts of home, with nothing but potato peels
left after taxes were levied by lords to pay for foreign wars.
A happy lot, well-dressed with threads taken off the backs
of merchants and aristocrats, we take our share of loot
to friendly ports for the pleasure of fine ladies and rum.
If, that is, we come back with more than scars to show
for our trouble, or if we come back at all. A brutal life
it is, but I’ll take this one brief gasp of freedom over yours. |
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He doesn’t remember it.
The sound of the man
coming up behind him
(he assumes it was a man)
or the way it felt when
the pipe struck his head.
He has no memory of pain,
or the forward-fall that
knocked out his front teeth.
He remembers his wallet,
his watch, his phone,
each enough to know that
they were gone, and to
know he had no feelings
for them. He doesn’t
remember the hospital,
or who helped him,
or even the time
it took to heal.
In many ways, it’s like
it never happened at all.
He holds a just
a single image from
the event: Blood, on
the sidewalk, in
the shape of
a perfect heart.
“What are the odds?”
he remembers thinking.
That and, “It’s beautiful.” |
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A roly-poly skeleton with a spear
points to a valentine, the valentine
to a triangle of blood red dots.
Is this a knock-off on Zeus?
(I wouldn’t put it past Bluebeard,
that devil of a pirate.)
Zeus with his shaft of arrows,
little sperm fishes darting through the air
to a woman’s pond.
Like Zeus, Bluebeard loved
variety in women. AND routine.
Sex in terms of death.
Which leads to Bluebeard’s
impersonators who don’t even
bother to raise a flag before the kill. |
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I'm awake on top of the blankets.
It's very cold and past midnight.
I fell asleep out of the covers.
I'm booze-heavy: dried-up bones.
There is a light on in the kitchen.
I left the light over the stove on.
-I could use a glass of cold water.
I could turn off that little light. |
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the night she was born
i fell asleep
trying to visualize her
i couldn’t see her
fell asleep to the music
of kitaro
pleading with god
for her life
in my dreams
i heard her mother’s cry
so real i ran to my phone
little did i know
it was only the beginning
of a battle
for my grandchild’s life
i felt robbed
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I hear the, “Yar!” and see the sword descend.
The pattern of life ended again and again.
Grappling hooks and pulling in.
Canon bursting outward, pushing backward.
Grapeshot. Ball and chain, and powder round.
Feet splayed, legs bleeding on the deck.
The golden crown of remembrance years later.
He was a pirate, and a teacher. |
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My uncle threaded a daisy stem
through his black beard,
and drank red wine until Dawn
tied her bloomers to a broomstick
waving them like a truce flag.
True story: she had the three
of hearts tattooed on her shoulder
and when her wide-necked shirt
slipped, my uncle wanted to kiss
the tattoo, but not the woman.
She said he could not kill a buffalo
for its robe. He said at least
he didn’t see her as a piece of meat,
which made her pause, then
unfurl from her crescent pose
long enough to lower jolly roger,
exposing the pale moon. |
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In this rib
cage
I stole a swollen
heart that belonged
to the room
only
it was here
we tried to
trespass
on ourselves.
We stared
at the dark backs
of our bent bodies
as they prayed
alone
together
like porcelain
statues
on display
our hands clasped
in corners
our chins touched
our throats
our breath splayed, made
the walls sweat
and all was verbatim
and the Kyrie, one note
and God was not you or me
but
this hour of dwelling,
doting
so far apart.
Yet,
To still hear sweet
nothings
like confessions
creaking the wooden floor!
to still hear
the beating of our heart!
God,
book of our palms,
we
made you
because we worshiped
the psalms
of each others love
and,
in the drawer
of our chests we hid you.
You, Us, A muscle we forgot we had.
A hotel-bible
whose pages
are so untouched
they couldn’t
even
be Eden.
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It isn’t like rain suddenly falling, or
a flash of light
that breaks the sky
into puzzled pieces, more
like a hum or your voice
in my hair, more like the spoon
you lift to my mouth, say
taste. And I do.
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cannon balls break against the hulls of our ships
yours or mine?
hearts falling to splinter, Dear
the drug
the drug
I remember the tenderness of all your hearts
wound between my teeth
draining to my hollow stomach
the madness of her scent in my veins...
the edge of our lips tinged in alchemy’s poisoned kiss
summers annual lie
autumns burnt leaves falling
football and apple pie
the hunger...
so daring
the drug
the drug
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On Frat Boys and Fishermen
There is but one cold,
cruel truth in life:
Those with the best safety nets
go on to live the best lives.
Consider it like this:
Without a taut, supple net
The fisherman watches as his catch,
his lifeblood, wriggles free.
Escaping its own demise,
whether by luck or providence,
matters less to the fish
than the fishermen’s children.
Beer guzzling,
ass-pinching frat boys
are the same.
They rely on the bonded strength of parents
to erase their debts when they fail at life.
This cruel, cold fact
reads out like privilege made of hemp.
Without a net, the fishermen starves his body
the frat boy; his soul.
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Whether I know it or not,
I raise a flag
of one sort or another
on my ship of everyday.
Gotta hand it to the pirate--
He flew what he was,
nothing hidden in the creases. |
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Sureños boys fly blue bandana flags everywhere
packing heat in dusty knapsacks
trampling up Canyon Road to cavort
with Chicana scorpions and stolen beer
six packs,
shirtless, fearless
battle-wounded bodies
with crooked triangle tattoos
on the webs bridging thumb
and forefinger:
three homespun dots,
faded to blue |
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I wait for her to be alone
I write a poem about her
on my cocktail napkin
I can see her heart beating
beneath her thin cotton shirt
She drinks good beer
She shoots pool
like Minnesota Fats
I can’t find much to bitch
about here
So where the hell did she go?
Someone tells me she just left
with the fucker with an eye patch |
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My oldest has read hundreds of them
the myths of Olympus, the mighty giants
the softest nymphs,
though his innocent brain
lingers not at these tempting intersections.
His life has been surrounded by these paper cuts,
collages of native, classical, coloquial
glued into one, or many, realities.
One constant. Love - the arrow of death
or life, depending on whom you ask
permeates it all,
all tales, all stories, all operas
like a river, slowly taking us
to a history we would do better to avoid. |
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the devil made me do it,
with needle and ink I tattooed it
an empty star on the
letting side of one wrist,
a thin and wavering X on the other
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A pirate’s life for me
mate. Until me bones
bleach white. Fate
carry me back to
sand that’s black and
hotter than
Hades at noon –
the address
I’m takin’ up soon.
It sounds too fantastic,
I know, me lad.
If it sounds so
It probably is.
But I gave as good
as I got, me son.
Ya can ask that
young barmaid
named Liz.
But be kind and take care
what you ask and where
‘cause while livin’
I shor lived in sin.
An’ because I am a giver
(luved to make ladies shiver)
best not to tell
where I been, I been.
Nah, it’s best not to tell
where I’ve been.
This pirate life ’s been good to me.
It’s crackin’ but near over.
I’m not surprised
my life of lies
leaves me last to discover,
it’s time to pay the piper, dear.
Now death shall be my lover. |
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Dog didn’t do the thing he was supposed to do. Boss was boiling mad, too. Dog was supposed to do away with The Girl.
Dog fixed his gun on The Girl but The Girl just gawked at him. Dog was so beguiled by her long legs, long red hair, longing looks that he just dropped his gun. The Girl grinned and grabbed it.
Everyday, Boss would bid Dog, Kill The Girl, Kill The Girl. Everyday, Dog dodged him. She’s sunning herself in Sedona, he said. The Girl’s gone to Green Bay. She’s skipped out on Dog, again.
Everyday, though, Dog and The Girl, The Girl and Dog, dug each other through and through. Behind Boss’s back, they went dancing, went golfing, went diving. Then Dog gave The Girl a diamond.
An invitation bidding Boss to come to a wedding arrived: Dog and The Girl. Boss posted his response. Number attending: 2. Names: Boss, The Gun. |
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Holding the arrow-matic spearhead
pointing with clockwork jangle
at the heart of the constellation,
man with the hollow bones tick-tock
against the end of grammar, sadman
woot-ing, happy-free, his hipbones, man,
the elephantine progress of drama,
the man recombinating dna of future
things that will never happen.
the click of dots in the chamber.
rolling infinite dealio.
jello, nailed to the wall. |
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