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Literature Text
god damn.
i was caught trying to butter my wrist with a scout knife.
i didn't plan or feel the want to do it
but it just traversed my life's timeline
and let loose.
manic/depressive
you've got really euphoric acmes
and brick oven lows
but the problem jumps
because
you can't feel the swing in feel.
i really didn't want to. no desire.
but seeing buk
and hunter s.
and joe henderson
and john cage
and dolphy
and tristano.
that shit would have been zipped and tight-locked.
i'm not suicidal
just when the tide swings low
and the seashells become visible
the weird ideas crawl up the sand.
and lonesome summers...3 months of it...
you can color your brain a whole new shade, right?
i was caught trying to butter my wrist with a scout knife.
i didn't plan or feel the want to do it
but it just traversed my life's timeline
and let loose.
manic/depressive
you've got really euphoric acmes
and brick oven lows
but the problem jumps
because
you can't feel the swing in feel.
i really didn't want to. no desire.
but seeing buk
and hunter s.
and joe henderson
and john cage
and dolphy
and tristano.
that shit would have been zipped and tight-locked.
i'm not suicidal
just when the tide swings low
and the seashells become visible
the weird ideas crawl up the sand.
and lonesome summers...3 months of it...
you can color your brain a whole new shade, right?
Literature
Your Poem
On the twentieth day of July 69,
For the first time in history,
The moon landed on a man.
The first time such move had been attempted by a celestial body,
A great feat of precision,
Didn't crush the man at all.
You see, we see things from our eyes,
And everyone knows our eyes see upside down.
Or is that the right way up?
I could tell you about walking through deserts,
The beauty of running water, of rain,
You'd be thinking of TV shows.
When was the last time you were challenged,
Walked away from a conversation stunned.
Who are you listening to, me or yourself?
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
Is meaning in the eye of t
Literature
umbrellas
I.
A boy putters in the hotel
corridor, leashed
by a single thread of duty--
it is wound
twice around the doorknob,
pulls taut at his wrist.
Recede through the keyhole,
and his keepers are weary,
sprawled like dead
leaves on bedspreads,
and fading
into sleep.
II.
A small girl wails, maybe three,
her teethy pitch escalating
by years.
In the rented night,
her last cry strangles,
undone by hands
on wrists.
III.
A forty-foot red curtain separates us
from the amphibious stage.
At the cirque du soleil
(i squint to see the sun),
clowns chase leaks
with patchy umbrellas.
This is a present, a moment
like a birthday. But
Literature
november 2nd
squatting.
when all the formalities have
finally been packed away
in a box marked p.c.,
when they've been stored
in the attic until some later
season when couth is again
in fashion, we'll use the proper word:
squatting. or perhaps, renting.
sure, there are those who still like
to costume their actions in words
like "dating" or even "talking,"
but it is now much too cold
for such flimsy decorative terms.
bring on the wool sweaters,
the stocking caps, the sweatpants:
the truth.
the truth is an extra-large sweater
that you think you'll never grow into.
it takes courage to try it on, because
you do look foolish at first
Suggested Collections
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