ALL RESPONSES |
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The Nina the Pinta The Santa Maria
sailed the mighty seas on maybe a Monday,
five hundred and eighteen years ago, and
remember what was said about that voyage?
He'll fall through the cracks as sure as shit. |
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A map asks how the world looks.
It answers in metaphors,
rivers, mountains, valleys, oceans
we no longer hear,
other than bare
facts. A map asks
where you are compared to
others, how far away they are
from you, how big they are
compared to your small
star-like appearance. A map
asks how it all come about
that we live as we do,
continents broken apart,
sometimes as if in solitude
complete from origins.
That never works. A map shows
everyone who is willing
to look
where they came from.
It must be said though that a map
can be doctored
if it threatens
an Emperor of China.
It can make sturdy, little
countries into
very small islands.
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Q? on the issue and the vote, if to govern is to split
the church and state/ proper or disgusting/
what betwixt?
Theirs’ ….is a happening
in-a-New York-minute dreaming:
a life / live and let live little girl/or guy
parades the New American fags flying
at stone's wall. might it happen?, We might see it...
- Carl Paladino
- Old Scratch... you ass!
Yours’… is a graffiti/anti-Word written
they just remake it as twas' misspoken.
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When you’re up all night losing weight
In the bathroom due to panic, it’s too late
To take Clonazepam. It won’t undo decisions
You made when you were twenty-nine,
Nor will it tuck you in for a good night’s sleep.
Buck up, bend over and take it like a man, boy.
The world is all yours, but only if you dig
For the gold that has your name on it.
And quit your bellyachin’ – you’ll get over it.
A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.
Everyone else can handle it, so why can’t you? |
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After all the howling
is done, and machines
still scream and the guilty
and the dead call for pizza
It’s after we don’t get along,
and people come over, drink
and talk and argue about sports
and politics and boxers and war
It’s that mighty thin place
where Heaven and Hell
almost touch, that place
to hang onto when things
are going well; that place
all men want a piece of
at least once in their pathetic
lives; that place we all want
to save when the chips are down
and the salsa has soured
It’s astro-turf and church pews,
some hill back in Wisconsin,
the place where Shelley once
pinched me, the hole that dictates
when we most want to be alone
during that most primal of chores
It’s what itches the most
and keeps us honest
with all the other animals
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Getting a map tattooed on my ass
was not as uncomfortable as
having to show it to strangers
because I can't read
it in the mirror. |
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I tried to forget the photo you sent
My mind hated the place where it went
But it comes sliding back all sails unfurled
Making me look at the bottom of the world
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feeling you fold between my lips
teeth wrapping around your lazy glutes
running myself mouth to groin over your half moon
writing verse on your salty skin
there is no map to be followed as a body turns to sweat
and bestial growls become the driver |
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Because words have been geysers
for weeks,
but today the water is tired,
has a head-cold, and battles heartburn.
Because health decided to play crazy,
and language declared war—
For today, both can kiss my matching set of hemispheres.
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| I’d like to say, just once, fuck Columbus Day. The blight of a united front bringing disease and weeds from other countries--continents’ incontinence bled out as prisoners and slaves to fill in unmarked graves. Yes, fuck. Fuck Columbus Day. Screw the need to cross oceans and seas just to spread the hell of plagues. Flush the rush Columbus had when his dumb ass did not calculate correctly, even though Ptolemy did it centuries earlier, the wide expanse of the earth’s ass, and landed on poor Hispaniola. What was the name of that settled place before the Portuguese claimed its space--where did the natives sleep after the monikers they thought would keep were torn away? What is the point, I ask, of celebrating another day like today? |
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some images
inspire
absolutely
nothing
in
me
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The Great Rift Valley
he called it in 1892.
John Walter Gregory
what were you thinking?
Not likely
what surfaced today
unapologetically as
the ass-hole of Africa.
With many bare-bottomed
ancesters leaving
their scattered remains
at Olduvai and such
the archaeologists must have
given more affectionate names
to this
Great Crack in Mother Earth.
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A few miles from the surface
of the Earth, endless space sits.
It hovers like a lynch mob,
and will wait there forever.
Somewhere between black forever
and the Earth is our moon -
the swollen head of a penis,
throbbing out its constant orbit. |
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Isn't this typical. Africa is in your ass. But let me tell you what. Africa can fit almost all of you inside of it. China+USA+India+Japan+Germany+France+UK+Spain+Italy+Switzerland+Portugal+Belgium+Netherlands+Eastern Europe+Sweden+Greece+Norway+New Zealand. You're all assholes. Ain't enough toilet paper in the world to clean you up.
(Reference: http://gregosuri.com/true-size-of-africa-6) |
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You thought you knew me.
The lines on my face, the contour of my body,
the design my scapulas made
on my back when arched.
You liked my hips,
drew on them with your fingers
countries and rivers to be discovered.
Mountains followed by valleys,
the picks formed on the back of my neck
when bent forward, head over my chest,
eyes closed letting you trace the paths
your tongue created,
the wet-ways to pleasure.
Unaware of your power,
the map you drew on my body
contained peace but also draught,
wars, flooding and fear
where you had unknowingly designed them.
You had not thought of those then,
your interest was purely the one of an explorer
looking for the new land I had in me.
What you had started for me
was separation between mind and body,
a conflict I could not avoid facing.
My survival depended on your hand
tracing not a way but your way to the home
I kept for you in my heart.
You were not interested in settling
and I had to move away from your eyes
that had printed your name
in scolding letters into my soul.
I had to leave.
You did not really know me.
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