Monthly Archives: July 2010

155

The metallic roar has turned into wind,and the moisture is now a path of phlegmwhich thickens in the throat, so parched and thinnedby the smoke-eaten drips that flood the brim:The crisp felt hat that is dipped in the pond to fend off the bears fro… Continue reading

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154

I only dig in crates when I have to,but the mossy stench invigorates mefrom eye to eye, as treason and graft doin the souls of this nation that hates me:The past emanates in portions, parcels of lightness and dust that rinse the sea floor,uncoveri… Continue reading

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153

The open heart cannot fathom its ownclosed off like a dream to the awakenedsoul whom pressures of pragmatics have shownto slide, swift, from the somnolence, weakened:The open heart, thus, wraps around itself a bandanna of blue and white paisley,to… Continue reading

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152

There was a taste of honey on the tongue punctured last week by the supple forcepswith two diamond tips, and my iron lung banged out like a graph scattered with rosehips: True intentions bulge in the summer flangelike intestines coiled out in a ro… Continue reading

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151

Moving forward toward a New Principle,the space swells across the bloated stomachas the crisis, the most arcane riddle,of our blank vision in this New Epoch;The angles are opposed, and the Angles deposed by the hungry hordes of bright coinsthat cl… Continue reading

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Third World Rhyme, I

Note: After lying hidden under my dresser for about 3 years, I stumbled upon a typed version of my original “Third World Rhyme,” which was originally written on a napkin in red ink–which quickly seeped into every cranny of the “page” making it a … Continue reading

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150

“You have to comb the infield to do it,”that’s what the colonizer told the men;What a strange position, from which I sit!I maintain the interests of the oxen:Fields, segadors, nationhoods under lights, with flies wafting on high and dreams on low;… Continue reading

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149

Metallic shards flood your senses tonight for the last time, maybe ever, maybe forever. It’s hard to say which is right, between the left hook and the meat cleaver: The spin on your mouthpiece is fierce like shards, scraping the pink toes of giant… Continue reading

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148

My memories of blindness are immense like the loss of the little ants I’d track or the specific taste of brown mouth rinse – fresh near-vomit every night, off the rack: I never thought I’d think clearly again, but the monotonous rain has spoken, b… Continue reading

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147

Be careful because control is a maze that bores intruders into a raw lull, reducing their worldliness to a phase in a bloody sojourn to spite the Bull: Meaning lacks finishing from loose grammars, and the webs they spin are more like cocoons— ridi… Continue reading

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