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Literature Text
I imagine you watching me
as I am whittled
by my own breath.
You pull me to your chest
but
I am eroding.
Cup my windblasted features,
swear you'll restore me,
though watching me dwindle
cuts open the truth that
someday this will kill me.
as I am whittled
by my own breath.
You pull me to your chest
but
I am eroding.
Cup my windblasted features,
swear you'll restore me,
though watching me dwindle
cuts open the truth that
someday this will kill me.
Literature
grow
To the dandelion,
In this part of the world,
the heart of July is frigid.
Frost renders the clay-earth firm as concrete
while gusts from the snowies
raze any hope of warmth.
Things do not thrive here,
yet this is where fate cast your seed
and you, unwillingly, grew your roots,
and became mangled
by what should have nurtured.
But spoiler alert:
survival is no pretty thing.
You are no spring tulip,
no summer orchid,
no autumn rose.
Though it shames you now,
the day will come
where you are proud
of having grown
out of a crack in pavement.
Literature
Dissonance
The mountain, bathing her flanks
in the yellow moon,
all the thin
margins of chemistry edging
toward frost and silence
isn’t it enough
to be alive—
Must I also
love it?
Air chills, stiffens.
It becomes hard to breathe.
Later in star-dewed night and the earth
in oscillating harmonics with the sun
and moon, and all the space dust there ever was
and ever will be, and I’m standing there
amidst the whirl
uneasy
afraid
brandishing myself like a club,
like the very first torch
burning fitful in the dark
though it’s only a scrap of carbon
thinking it can think, that loving
or not loving
should matter at all
though it&
Literature
if you have ghosts (you have everything)
my hands were blue and so was i
and i had everything:
a christmas tree
a guitar tuned by humidity
a dark library underneath my pillow
and a voice whose words jerk, jut
and stab quietly into one another
so i may never understand;
it was two AM, dawn of a decade
and here a ghost has me motionless in 1933.
--
i never met my grandfather till today--
he dies in 1975
and in 2020 he is born
at the bottom of a drawer in the kitchen,
his coffin and crib:
he is swaddled in moth-eaten dishtowels by a nameless undertaker
(or perhaps an autophagic author himself);
his crib and coffin:
he is buried a lifetime
(deaf to my cacophonous lifetime et ceter
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Comments8
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oh darling
i'm here, too
so many of us here
surely adore you
i'm here, too
so many of us here
surely adore you