ALL RESPONSES |
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| You can view Kara's paintings at the St. Paul Art Crawl, April 27-29. |
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Torment
Pain without remission
when only deep fatigue
will let it pass
and then the dreams
of it ghostlike
and transparent
or wishing it was
one can only hold oneself
in self-comfort
as none other can know
none other can aid
none other will share
041712 |
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Now I lay me
say me
pray me.
Dreams drift in,
bright leaping colors
flaming their way;
stark black and white,
slicing to the bone
and other organs.
Go ahead.
I'm ready for true stories. |
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It pains me to see you this way
struggling to get out of bed each day
bed face self in disarray
no matter what I do or say
snap out of it already
come with and play.
We'll play until the sun goes down
until i see you smile i'll be your clown
we'll erase the pain the bitter frown
you'll forget this ache unbreak your crown
snap out of it already
it's just another day. |
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I hear white lilacs
I see Canadian geese
returning
I smell my sweat—
One
Two
Three
in the morning; up
again, mother—
father—
both come to me
with their dead stories
this title—
that line
a suggestion—
another breath
all my words are sands—
Upon rising
I will not shave
dishes are still piled
in the sink
I should fold my hands
in the form of a light—
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"Denn das Schöne ist nichts
als des Schrecklichen Anfang, den wir noch grade ertragen,
und wir bewundern es so, weil es gelassen verschmäht,
uns zu zerstören. Ein jeder Engel ist schrecklich."
“For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure, and it amazes us so,
because it serenely disdains to destroy us.
Every angel is terrible.”
― Rainer Maria Rilke, Duino Elegies
Pleasure. Something of the body or the mind.
I'm not sure which.
It makes you tired.
Excitement leaves you drained, with
That clean, empty feeling. Scrubbed, immaculate. Pure.
The gift of total collapse,
Of spectacular annihilation.
A rubber bubble of joy that never bursts, but does.
Summer thunderheads, who would oppress us, rain.
All drawing you down in foamy rivers, but
You feel too guilty to sleep,
Because you haven't done anything to deserve it.
You know your dreams will be too good to be free.
Draw the curtains. Turn out the lights. Send me the bill.
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As Days Pass
Each breaking day
summons me
to duty
worship
life
Pretending
not to hear its call
I sink deeper
into the cool, sea-green sheets
hoping the long, warm reach
of morning sun
will lightly stroke my shoulder
just one more time
Drawing out that passing, perfect moment
Before the tug of tides
sweeps me out to sea,
and the struggle renews
I dive,
for the cover of my dreams
where I hold my breath
until I can hold it no longer,
and then rise,
in surrender,
to the vanquishing light of day.
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it’s a quiet pre-summer night
beyond the harsh yellow glare
of street lights
the sky is spectrum blue
i pace like a wolf bitch
in a cage
missing solitude
a multitude of stars
i miss the fragrant pine
sounds of shagawa’s
water flow around rock
i was raised
in the wilderness
a place i feel i belong
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True Colors
Stained as glass
transparent through colors
cool blues warm yellows
mostly messages of
the odd chill and warmth
of finding dreams
where we sought none
where we go not out of choice
though perhaps desire
but out of chance
and we dance in the
unpredictable rhythm
and the rhyme of time
as a mobius strip
as a convolution
as the jigsaw puzzle
where we are glad
we do not recognize ourselves
e 042112
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Didn’t I just go to bed an hour ago?
And here it’s time for me to do dinner,
what the money class calls lunch.
When do I wash my hair, clean my nails?
I’m just like that joke my sister told.
A husband was bugging his wife,
they had to talk. “I don’t have time to talk.
I don’t even have time to clean my asshole.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Oh, please. Not yet. Give me one hour more.
My toes are curling in like my soul. |
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I think mother was afraid
she might go to hell; never
a real believer, she faced
morning like she faced father,
with sharp pins in her hair
Sleep spoke a language she refused
to believe; often awake in the middle
of the night, a blind cry away from
morning, thinking about her old dishes,
her worn towels, shoes she wanted
but could not afford —
Some nights she believed a moving
van would save her; some nights
she prayed for frictionless mornings;
when sleep finally overwhelmed her,
she dreamed her children’s faces
stared down at her from great heights
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“Find the dog. Where you find the dog, you’ll find the family.”
Max was maneuvering the unmanned drone through the high-end neighborhood of Kenwood in Minneapolis. The drone was purchased for surprisingly little by the local media outlet “Pasture”.
It was Max’s job to record and sell, the somewhat salacious conversations taking place within the thick-walled grand manors lining Douglas Avenue, Mount Curve and Kenwood Parkway.
Initially, Max had trouble honing in on voices at all. The temperature sensitive instrument was effective and frequently accurate in placing warm bodies in rooms. But the figures were ethereal and voices echoed long after the subjects moved rooms or changed positions. When Max wanted speed and accuracy, nothing was more effective than locating the imbedded chip in dogs, and training his surveillance software nearest the chip.
BINGO
Tonight he overheard a distraught Mrs. Rebecca Polczyk begging her indifferent spouse, Mayor JR Polczyk, to please abandon his extra-curricular females. Stop dining out with them in public, shaming her to her friends. The heat camera revealed her movements well enough. He watched her retire to her bedroom and collapse upon her bed.
Max pitied her. In high-school, she performed oral sex on him and his friend. She was broken then too. But she was kind and had a gentle touch. She didn’t deserve to be spoken to so coldly, and by someone who was supposed to love her. The irony of a beautiful-yet-broken society matron continued to be a high-paid headline grabber.
EPILOUGE:
Out of pity, he called her and replayed the recordings. She and The Mayor compensated him from what would have been his cut, had his observations gone viral.
When you find the family dog, you find the family, and everybody wins.
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We do not know the lives we lead.
We lead lies
down back alleys,
down dark hallways,
and prey on misfortune.
We pray to the god
that agrees what we do is right.
Righteousness lies in the eyes
of the tyrant.
Letters of sacred texts
don't judge with such
a harsh grip.
Our hands, Judas.
Our tongues, Pontius Pilot.
Our minds, we wait
for their second coming
which is thousands of years
with no guarantee.
We lead three lives-
one with action
one with words
one with thought
in different directions,
all end in failure
of our bodies.
Can we travel
far enough away from them
before our form fades?
We do not know what we lead,
or where.
Out onto branches.
The weight won't hold forever.
We never bother to look down.
Why bother?
We'll see it soon enough,
Unless we choose the branch carefully.
Then we will fall forever
with no fear of where
we land
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Here I am, an old man
And time is being torn
My mother brings me breakfast
My father is not born.
I move into my wedding suit
As speech moves into me
And at my mother's funeral
Her mother coddles me.
The sun is up
And lights the moon
The sky is dark with blue
I sleep in quiet and solitude
And move back into you. |
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I lay in this pool of melted feelings,
plastered as on a wall,
a mural of my dereliction,
were the colors melt and drip unashamed.
Eyes closed, I remain still as if wishing to go unseen.
Dreams or nightmarish thoughts
show a me sitting on the bed, slouched
under the weight of some old memory,
faceless expression of loss,
hands gripping my face as if a mask
that must be removed
to show the truth that hides beneath it.
Maybe I shouldn't wake.
I decide to remain here, immobile.
A strand of hair, like the spaghetti strap of my camisole
extend from my shoulder
until it looks like a skinny drop of color
lazily laying over my hand.
It's official, I decided.
I'll keep on dreaming.
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