ALL RESPONSES |
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i am convinced heaven will reward
those who believe a day is nothing
more than buoys of grain spread
like so many wild wheat strands
i am not immune to false gods licking
my hands at night, making me dream
sleep lately is like playing bumper cars,
certain scenes whip by & by morning
my shoulder blades ache,
i taste electricity on my breath
i am convinced my love
is fortune, why else
like a black cloud
have i followed you
for twenty-three years?
i am anywhere, even hiding
in a grain bin
i am convinced
you will find me
after harvest
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sticks divine fortune
vectors join frame vision
divided by why |
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I have kept her late again,
this eight-year-old,
winnowing her
for whatever grains
I can use
because I know
that no matter how
often I have
probed this child of chaff,
there will always be a kernel
of pain
to pick up and turn over
in my hand
dreaming of the
grand confections
I can make
with such fine-textured flour.
I am done with her
for now
and I wonder
what keeps her
from blowing away.
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1.
They never found where the spark came from.
A careless cigarette, perhaps
a belt worn thin.
Explosions don't explain themselves.
It was the night shift, that
was lucky.
2.
The white flour shimmers in the air
deadlier than gunpowder.
The mill wheel turns for great and small.
They felt the tremors in St. Paul.
3.
And the flaming brands rained down
in the streets of Minneapolis.
Chickens keeled over, laundry blew off its line.
The other mills
set alight in the splendor, the glory of the plains.
4.
But these immigrants, flying from
Prussians, potato famines...
So lightly pushing off from the world
leaping onto ships and railcars.
They danced so gaily.
Hefting the sacks
that would be bread
(Never starve here!)
some little flame keeping
body and soul together.
They knew it was only the strike of a match.
5.
Eighteen dead.
And a stone in Lakewood cemetery
not too far from the water.
Washburn took the hands
and would not let them go.
He had them build the new mill
with the best modern technology. |
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Outstretched limbs
fracture sky
wired cables
craze what hasn’t broken
Aging earth
yet implored
to feed
its teeming masses.
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Communion of skin and fire
sips of blood and lust
each word salt on your tongue
each sound the music of me
each line a small bird to hold
cupped in your palm, notice
how her breathing slows,
her beaks drops, eyes closed
she sits and hums.
Feel how she warms to you
how feathers are weightless
how songs take flight.
This poem
wants to gather the miles
east and south, harvest clouds
soundless and pure, lay them
at your feet
sweep the sky clean and
and with this thread of desire
tie me to you.
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the cold gray metal of the center town
grain elevator, so high & people searching it
for a face they have misplaced
some people need to see a face, see instead,
beyond, to the high inverted triangular
clouds of their December
some people have need to see a face,
breathing on both sides of their street,
need to hear a voice shouting in insistence
“This, this is where you are”
some people want to see a face, want to name
children after the famous, want to bury
their skeletons, get used to thinness in their lives
random answers plague them like winter
locust, the spines of their chairs creak, wives
hold fat husbands in stillness & patience
once in a great while, sirens & small machines
go roaring off into the darkness to extinguish
after all, even small things need to be saved
the local pastor shouts in Sunday sermons
to be wakeful, to understand the needs
but do we understand,
he says, do sleepers truly understand
the look & the need for more?
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Criss-cross wires and angels,
demons on scarlet wings, dying,
their logic - souls etched on sky
Some see grain, some see steel
some see dancing mothers
enslaved to men, fat
and full of ripened seed
Fancy fat ladies waiting for spring
Please, buy them a drink when it's over
Squeeze them with eloquent muscles
Kiss them where they wish to be kissed
Time begins at midnight. When the sun comes up,
angel wing feathers cover warm beds.
Go back to sleep. It's a dream. |
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-Age 3-
riding on three wheels to the park
we see the simple edifice
stick its image between the
brown fences of neighbor lawns
and playground trees
after the lights turn on
for night
it glows wild for us.
-Age12-
the gray plague
smells like rocks and dust
as dying cigarette
smoke pours into
the cobalt bent sides
bouncing off
with furtive shadows
we talk girls and
secretly cuss
the metal cobwebs
that force us to
climb at night
gleaming moon-buzzed
buzzard smiles,
neon blurs the town
-Age16-
sniffing the electric heat
of July sun meets
the white carnival of lights
spun by rusty
alcohol and
brunettes,
nodding at the bygone friend
trucks outweigh
its lost honeyed dins
lights and flies
around them
for what it means to be
enlightened nowhere
barren
elsewhere
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I lie on the concrete,
near a puddle of muddy water from
last night's storm,
and stare at the patchwork
quilt of bright October blue velvet
sewn hastily together to the
grey corduroy,
interlaced with leftover strips of
black denim from a pair of my
brother's work pants.
Only thread left in the bin was
this shiny silver stuff I once
used to piece together my
god-daughter's fairy wings last Halloween.
Not enough material for more than a
throw blanket,
something to snuggle under while
watching "To Kill a Mockingbird" or
some other Classic on the TV at
two a.m. that goes perfectly
with a cup of hot chocolate
that looks a bit like a
puddle of muddy water.
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