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Literature Text
i.
I am beckoned
by a page -
stained brown
and burned
with the smell of old
farm animals. I read
ii.
On pale hill there lies a child
and like a dying rattlesnake
it stabs the earth
with paintbrushes
ruthless.
iii.
I am disturbed and dirty.
iv.
and so I bathe
in my own hues
and journey
across the Antarctic
and when I turn around
v.
my footprints are red.
I am beckoned
by a page -
stained brown
and burned
with the smell of old
farm animals. I read
ii.
On pale hill there lies a child
and like a dying rattlesnake
it stabs the earth
with paintbrushes
ruthless.
iii.
I am disturbed and dirty.
iv.
and so I bathe
in my own hues
and journey
across the Antarctic
and when I turn around
v.
my footprints are red.
Literature
My First and Last War Poem
When he came back from the war,
all he saw was shrapnel.
Not like the sort on the battlefield,
at home there were no bodies,
there was no thick sticky blood on his hand,
She stood at the beach,
brushed back a strand of hair
a jellyfish washed onto shore.
She knew only the dead were that clear
and it reminded her of the poisonings:
dead cats and dogs curled in balls along the sidewalk
after some jerk littered the doorsteps
steaks marinated in cyanide.
instead, he watched his family,
watched himself at the dinner
table as if he weren't even eating
swallowed the potatoes and wondered
"where is the metallic flavor;"
"where is th
Literature
On Disappointment
I.
Out on the porch, my mother sat in an Adirondack chair, smoking
her first cigarette in ten years. The air was hazy and discolored.
Her wedding ring spun on the table, gathering fallen ashes.
I was on the floor, knees tucked up under my chin, poking sticks
down the cracks. She spoke of lies and imagined bliss.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed.
I listened as my mother explained the complexity of love.
II.
Last night he drove just over the state border. I sat in the car,
feet up on the dashboard, singing with the radio. He looked at me
like he had a secret. He was the sage and I was the fool.
So there we were, lying
Literature
Strangers In The Night
The conifers played the piano the night you died.
On reflection, because of what happened, I expected there to be rain and stricken bolts of lightening. A perfect storm for an imperfect night.
In reality, the sun set in a perfect ball of glowing embers. There was no need for fire, catastrophe would occur that night in many other ways.
Our paths had never crossed before. Or if they had, we never knew it. I hadn't heard your voice, and I didn't know your name. Your voice and your name would never combine to enlighten me that night, nor ever again. The most important moment of your life, and possibly the most memorable of mine tugged us rough
Suggested Collections
full title: "humanity is a library of libraries"
((RATTLESNAKES DON'T COMMIT SUICIDE))
-SPLAT-
and i dedicate this piece
to my allergies
and waterfalls
of sexy snot.
((RATTLESNAKES DON'T COMMIT SUICIDE))
-SPLAT-
and i dedicate this piece
to my allergies
and waterfalls
of sexy snot.
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Comments38
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"I am disturbed and dirty."
If I could say what I feel from this,
then I would be a better person.
If I could say what I feel from this,
then I would be a better person.