Life after ESPY'S/A Poem by h d e rushinWhy was I so happy with Albert Goldbarth's new poems? Secrets mostly, the way the heart patient feels the aorta as it tears. I too "mistyped" the patterns of hope, locked inside, like the simplest house fly between screen and replacement window. I showed Linda my new poems after Caitlyn Jenner spoke, of how I didn't cry when Dad died but held, with the lonely MOTHER, candles in the August night. Were you on Pluto without your cigarettes in 96, you'de think it an aurora - minus that LYMPH stained borealis - the way it slung itself over our nappy heads. "A poem of things on your shoulders" I think they were called, my lips half pursed stuck on cold and frozen poles of waiting and sacrifice. Because I rode down the Cass Corridor in the AM AND SAW THE HOMELESS TRANS BOYS SCURRYING, THEIR LONG SYNTHETIC WINGS FLOWING AS IF LOOKING, FROM THE PULLMANS CAR, A LUSH FIELD OF UNRIPE CORN, IT'S SILK BARELY VISIBLE. BUT THERE IS NO PRETENDING THAT THE PLANTING DIDN'T HAPPEN THAT THE FARMER DIDN'T DO HIS LEVEL BEST TO FIGHT OFF THE BROWN SHIRTS OF MONSANTO BUT FINALLY GAVE IN TO ALL THE UNIMAGINABLE THINGS, THAT HUNGERS THE MOST IMAGINABLE SOULS. © 2015 h d e rushinReviews
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4 Reviews Added on July 16, 2015 Last Updated on July 21, 2015 Author
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