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Literature Text
I think the day that Dean died for me was
when I sailed over that asphalt sea
across the desert where the sun hung orange and
the great ball tree stands stoic, some of its balls broken,
to arrive in city, after the night fell, and sitting at our old haunt
was he, and his new girl, and they were blowing smoke into the air,
and his tears had dried in all the hours it took for me to drive, and he
stared at me like he didn’t know me, and my heart broke …
that was the day Dean died …
when I sailed over that asphalt sea
across the desert where the sun hung orange and
the great ball tree stands stoic, some of its balls broken,
to arrive in city, after the night fell, and sitting at our old haunt
was he, and his new girl, and they were blowing smoke into the air,
and his tears had dried in all the hours it took for me to drive, and he
stared at me like he didn’t know me, and my heart broke …
that was the day Dean died …
Literature
traffic on the overpass under the fingernails
and while alacrity
is still
quite far out of reach,
my hands stretch, spreading out
like skeletal maps, each bone
finding breathing room, each vein
a highway being built
even as the cars continue to drive
(trying to fix a train as it moves down the tracks)
and they disassemble,
they pull themselves apart
at the joints,
to build a floating bridge of
little white hopes,
thin little ribbons
licking the potential
to fly
(but the road is anfractuous,
and they’ll drive forever,
circumnavigating the potholes
and finding their way back
to where they started)
our cognitive maps don’t h
Literature
scattered
We leave pieces of ourselves in the corners
Of bookshelves, stuck between the pages
And in the hand painted wooden bowl
Collecting dust and spare change.
My fingers grazed a fragment
When I saw a photograph of you today
And my lungs caught on the memory
Of the first words you said to me
Lingering like a ghost breath
In the soft curve of my earlobe.
(“Hi, mind if I ask you
Some questions?”)
I hid inside the rain to drown out
The sound. The wet grass stuck to my toes
And the droplets rolled down
Over the shirt that my mom told me
Makes me look like I’ve got a chip on my shoulder.
(She thought her rebel was a princess
Bu
Literature
Spunion Gamble
October:
a shitstorm sober,
an overdose of
overdoses, disorder,
a postcard from
nowhere you want to be.
Believe me, the scenery
sucks, syringes sticking
up from heaps of ugly
dead leaves
twenty-somethings lining
sidewalks by the morgue
door, babies trading bodies for itty
bitty bottles of more
snow falling on wasted war-
torn faces glazes wide unblinking
eyes, white light erases
places, ages, life
flies away to where
I haven't got a clue but
I can't solve the problems
of insolvency by dissolving
decency- can you?
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