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Literature Text
that we are all of us
utilizing
individual avatars
distinct from the earth
we imagine we are separate
as the space between planets
the miles from
a continent
to
continent
yet
not a single soul is separated from the divine
even deaf, blind and dumb -- the body still draws breath
the corpse sleeps upon the earth
within the earth
decays
into dust
caught in the wind
and an island is not isolated
from the rest of the planet
the connections are merely hidden by the sea
and on all islands
no matter the ocean
the small mass of land
is caressed by waves
embraced by the air
if you experience solitude
quit lying to yourself
it is absolute presumption
complete arrogance
to assume that you are alone.
utilizing
individual avatars
distinct from the earth
we imagine we are separate
as the space between planets
the miles from
a continent
to
continent
yet
not a single soul is separated from the divine
even deaf, blind and dumb -- the body still draws breath
the corpse sleeps upon the earth
within the earth
decays
into dust
caught in the wind
and an island is not isolated
from the rest of the planet
the connections are merely hidden by the sea
and on all islands
no matter the ocean
the small mass of land
is caressed by waves
embraced by the air
if you experience solitude
quit lying to yourself
it is absolute presumption
complete arrogance
to assume that you are alone.
Literature
Counting for Nothing
Fourteen hundred paces wasted
walking to your door,
and every time a pointless pounding
headache - sore, resounding, raw;
what follows next? as you'd expect
a shocking exhibition of
that bloody mix of tears
and spit and semen spilled
across this gritty floor.
and from the day that we last spoke
I've counted twenty-four.
How come I'm your ignored -
you must have grown so bored of me
and now my fingers, gnawed and nails all bitten
paw through scores
of letters better left unwritten -
never sent, now torn and scattered, littered
with my bitter thoughts unuttered,
so utterly distraught I am, I poured a litany of scorn
and lo
Literature
March, 2004
Soon enough, it got hard for me
to ignore the pebbles of broken
glass buried in the seats
of her attempted-suicide car, or
the night you cut open your legs
only to find them filled
to the brim with nothing
but cold blood and fresh ice.
I could smile but I was stuck in your war-
time car crash, fighting to breathe
over the exhaust, the sky dark and thick
with the unspoken, and she, your mother,
was confined to forced peace,
rounded corners, no butter knives
or shoelaces, hidden scars, white light and white, white walls.
Literature
Our Issues
Your heart grew up in a black wooden box
and thought it fabulous,
its world of
right angles,
wood grain,
and eternal night.
It hated me when I bored the hole
that let the sun singe its eyes, cook its skin,
when rain collected the dirt on its skin
in a puddle beneath its feet and said:
"look how dirty you are, foul thing."
It hated and
hated and
still hates,
always crawling
under any
box it finds.
I kicked it
out of its hiding place.
It ran out howling, hating and being
ha
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Comments7
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It is warm and mantra-like.