ALL RESPONSES |
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On the brick patio he built outside
my bedroom window, the men stood, bottle
of beer in one hand, cigarette in the other
talking about the game, the play they made
the pitch they missed. I remember how night
settled in, shifting to deeper blues and shadow
patterns of light playing on my walls; sailing ships
and long necked dinosaurs chased by clouds
and the voices of men, the laughter of men
filled my dreams.
The smoke of his Marlboro lofted
through my window.
In the morning I counted the empties in the case,
found the missing beer bottles stranded
in the ferns and peonies, some
with an inch of beer still in them. I lifted
each bottle to my lips, pretended I was him,
and finished them. Every bottle cap I found
I put in my pocket, pie plates and golden
crowns for my dolls.
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In day and darkened room, be prepared
to go ahead
when his word can scarcely be preserved for salon
wanting the doctrine, great Bucephalus
treads monsooned interstate, seeking buffet food
for a field goal
kingdoms of rushing fiber-flushed
aquarium customers, to pardon them
perhaps, or, filleted on Amish altars, nostalgia
painted in negligee
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i will be writing you soon
as to who i am, words will pour
onto my paper like rain, they will
substitute for my familiar voice:
you’re not expressing yourself
it’s hard to know what you want
and when, and then of course,
where exactly do you keep the tickets
"...I’ve been meaning to write sooner
or later but something has kept
me here next to you, hands
tied, frantic to speak, with nothing...
to that weekend we first mentioned
during construction of our backyard shed
four days working together erecting,
sweating, pulling nails under threat
"...to say that hasn’t already not
been said; besides the shed
is already peeling its first coat
where is the damn scraper...
of rain it’s been five years since we
argued over the joists & mosquitos
thicker than our current silence
we slapped together so long ago
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The more he panned, the thinner he grew.
His desires haunted him,
whether he slept or not (more often not).
The thinner he grew, the hungrier he got.
Blasting holes in mountains,
he felt the shaking inside his chest intensify.
Once found,
he would race into town,
wash the mud from his emaciated body,
shave the growth from his tired cheeks,
and deposit all but one small sack
in the local bank.
Someday he'd cash it all out and go back to Pennsylvania.
With the bit he'd kept out,
he'd buy himself a steak and a beer,
and if he was feeling extra randy maybe even a woman.
Then, back to the river.
The more he found, the poorer he felt.
Obsessed with the "more" he knew was waiting,
he forgot to eat...
he forgot to sleep...
he forgot to go into town for steak and beer and
an hour of sweet-smelling flesh beneath his calloused hands.
What was he panning for?
What was he blowing holes in mountainsides for?
Certainly not for the rush.
Certainly not.
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