December 2010
20 posts
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not a poem
Operation success.
Cancer gone.
Home tomorrow.
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Rivers of Intentions
fit only for placid staring, waters of a broad old river. leaf-stained and slow, hide grandiose intentions to depart for the uttermost ends of the earth.
sleepless streams. passionate for map-making, prone to sinuous silence, and fated for greatness do the hardest work of moving mountains.
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Simple Funeral
the future becomes crestfallen all at once a forest of mourners stands spectrally in winterlight faint sounds go home to one’s very heart then fetch the deep sigh of narrative that shapes itself without human lips
mica eyes glitter without blinking in depths of wilderness unknown to generations painfully shocked by this clamor of pause in profound stillness
then the simple funeral is over
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Good Night
in purest coldest air white-winged messengers make their way to familiar azimuths before night comes undone
encircling arms feel their burdens flung away among galaxies veiled by falling trackless snow touching consciousness chilled and faint turning towards red uncertain hearts
the earth broken and crushed sits in his own uninterrupted loneliness face hidden by countless days that belong to the...
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Does Your Species Have A Name?
The Earth spins and spins on wobbly legs, a drunk careening down a badly lit sidewalk.
With each wobble comes cold, comes ice, comes a new round of extinctions.
The Earth doesn’t care if your species even has a name, never mind who your god is.
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The Scratch and Dent People
Scratch and Dent People
they are scratch and dent people with thrift shop bargain basement dreams they carry in plastic trash bags, the deep pockets of oil-stained coats or in failure-zippered backpacks from a Salvation Army store.
denizens of dumpsters, of streets and alleys named after presidents, heroes or trees, they sit warming in libraries, stand smoking hand-rolled idleness, rest on...
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Surly: By Oakwolf
A snapping turtle is serious and reactionary, with speed and reach that belie its stony visage, you learn too late. In swampy murk the turtle’s business is none of yours