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“I” is only
a convenient term for somebody who has no real being.
--Virginia
Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
Three weeks
ag..
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There is no
whisper in the wind--
it howls
more than Ginsberg,
like a pack
leader at a fully-risen moon.
Raindrops
turn to sleet and hit
..
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The
charcoal of pavement contrasts bright orange
as black
bleeds into bleak gravel.
A fallen
angel-straddling heaven and hell-
broken
ant..
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He
straggles down the empty street,
past homes
with broken windows, missing doors.
The newly-risen
moon casts light across alleyways
Where..
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I saw your body navigate the congested concrete street,
the pills that you ingested (one by one)
stacked high upon your chest like pancakes.
..
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Her eyes were as big as the moon,
so when she gathered flowers,
hugged closely in the bosom of a tree,
her tears created a crystal lake,
w..
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Tie a
string around my ankles;
Tie it
tight, grip it well, and run.
I will bump
along the ground,
but, like
Marylin Monroe’s,
my..
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I worship a God who resides in the splatter of raindrops.
He hits the ground in an insignificant splash,
trickles along the crevices of empty s..
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We hide behind sheer, wafting curtains
until all that remains are our silhouettes.
Without the clarity of faded scars
no one can see our regr..
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An experiment with form, this poem differs from my more typical writings. It was a good exercise, though I'm interested to know if other people find i..
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