No one cares for me,
because I once cared for you.
futile attempts to invigorate the soil
with hands un-gloved, dirty deeds
to provide my life with some color.
I lost my five sisters, put-out
stars. embers burning at the end
of my cigarette, as the earth-
un-tilted. and I remember this:
a world once warm and smooth
ivy, scarlet, and melted butter.
asking without words, a war
was waged because of my lust
for change and because the sky's
face had fallen in the mud
no more up and adam, simply
down and down and down
and further out: such a price
for my birth-right, my freedom.
everyone is in black with hypothermic
breath, beaten about, winds-
inevitable and unyeilding,
as I turn forever blue
your beastly lips sewn shut
no more will these tender-
words, these tears, and-
my ears throb. when death comes:
will I be marked by anything but,
my selfish martyrdom, or
will the next decade prove
something else, for my
my constitution is either
being filled up by the sea,
or possibly a bud is blooming.
Monday, November 14, 2011
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Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu...
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like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
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motionless sap. ogling your shadow, you have much thinking to do. has the potassium kicked you in the arse yet-and got you going? you a...
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Under a blanket it was at high altitudes in love or nauseous? I once held his hand his touch was so soothing-but with a lion's face. and...
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nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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and now that the anger is gone there may be a few more glimpses like looking out of the window through a thin veil of silk. a look in...
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confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
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it's not possible. I think the problem must be- too much love and hate.
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secret fancies don't really bother me, alright? but know that once you tell me I become either like a turtle and snap my smile...
mindful words.
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