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Literature Text
I guess you could call me crazy
but
I have been cooped up, chewed up
and belted
under this rolling, hot temper
of yours,
but here I am, still
unshifting,
folded carefully and scented sweetly
that a thousand men would save me
if i allowed it,
but frankly,
i'm more interested in the moon's embrace
unwavered and slowly edging
to his freedom.
but
I have been cooped up, chewed up
and belted
under this rolling, hot temper
of yours,
but here I am, still
unshifting,
folded carefully and scented sweetly
that a thousand men would save me
if i allowed it,
but frankly,
i'm more interested in the moon's embrace
unwavered and slowly edging
to his freedom.
Literature
lightkeeping
As you pick up the lantern in front of you, you find it filled with a busy, buzzing flurry of lights. Somebody stuffed fireflies into this one - not the proper thing at all. You unfasten the latch, open the door; the little bugs stream out gratefully. They bathe the wayside in a faint glow for a moment, then vanish in the pitch-black of the Long Night one by one.
You settle down cross-legged and gently put the empty lantern onto your lap to dream up a star.
Literature
if you have ghosts (you have everything)
my hands were blue and so was i
and i had everything:
a christmas tree
a guitar tuned by humidity
a dark library underneath my pillow
and a voice whose words jerk, jut
and stab quietly into one another
so i may never understand;
it was two AM, dawn of a decade
and here a ghost has me motionless in 1933.
--
i never met my grandfather till today--
he dies in 1975
and in 2020 he is born
at the bottom of a drawer in the kitchen,
his coffin and crib:
he is swaddled in moth-eaten dishtowels by a nameless undertaker
(or perhaps an autophagic author himself);
his crib and coffin:
he is buried a lifetime
(deaf to my cacophonous lifetime et ceter
Literature
Gulf
Shoulder to shoulder,
In a rough surf, they ride
A yellow raft,
My Mother and Father.
At the first drops
Of the storm, their faces
Side by side,
They're slow to move.
Legs trailing, now
Propelled, now withdrawn,
They re-appear
Each time farther out.
The rhythm of the sea--
I complain it's pulling me
Down--the rhythm
Is my parents' own.
Hugging the raft,
They wear the distant smile
Of those quietly
Listening at a shell.
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daddy's issue's but I AM winning...
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This was epic