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Literature Text
speaking in highways,
steel lines, edges of megathrust magnets
thrown off their orbit; your glorious pain
is impersonal here -
the ghost touch of glass panes versus
skyscrapers' nuzzling during a
quake; no more quakes, no more oceans,
shh,
the crackling scares
a sparrow out of the bushes.
the hunter producing a bird
the overflowing light dissecting reeds
to reveal
all the possible trajectories of a gunshot.
happiness is the khaki overgrowth
this is the amazon blooming,
its thorns devour and choke
the struggle out of you; i am a voice lost in the trees
we'll never meet
you'll never cut through here
steel lines, edges of megathrust magnets
thrown off their orbit; your glorious pain
is impersonal here -
the ghost touch of glass panes versus
skyscrapers' nuzzling during a
quake; no more quakes, no more oceans,
shh,
the crackling scares
a sparrow out of the bushes.
the hunter producing a bird
the overflowing light dissecting reeds
to reveal
all the possible trajectories of a gunshot.
happiness is the khaki overgrowth
this is the amazon blooming,
its thorns devour and choke
the struggle out of you; i am a voice lost in the trees
we'll never meet
you'll never cut through here
Literature
A Poem of No One
he tells me
fix it -
i say it has a face
swamps running down in each of its eyes
weeds in its teeth
with needles for veins
it has a pulse like the tide, rolling in its ears
it snaps the necks of daisies and wonders if there’s an easier way to leave a field
it wants to know why god is everywhere but why there’s only one
angel sitting next to it in english - i say, and
it pours in a cup of its soul until the end isn't bitter
loses its heart with its keys and holds itself out in its hands
until love isn't dead-stiff anymore
it listens to clocks rattle like a box of bones
and notices that it sounds like its heart in the night.
{i
Literature
If you're going to be sanctimonious
Awkward bodies are for growing
teenagers, not twenty-four
year old college graduates.
My hips were made to procreate;
my shoulders to carry the weight
of your stares. I’m perfectly fine;
your perception is what’s messed up.
I shave for my own comfort,
not yours. My nails are short
and chewed upon. I don’t
even own a pair of heels;
shackles would be more comfortable.
My hands are scratched
by all the cats I’ve cared for.
I look best in business casual;
slacks, tank, shell. I never remember
my bust size. I own more books
than clothes. My eyes are gold
in the late afternoon sunshine.
I can afford a bland oat
diet an
Literature
Oh, Emma
oh, emma, oh, emma –
those dancing wildflowers,
caressed by the shaking hands
of the springtime winds,
are forever yours in the
field behind your house.
they are not mine – i will
not remove them from your
grasp -
you may visit them,
dressed head to toe in
your white lace, for i know
that your love will never
cease for them.
perhaps we could
lie amongst their beauty
together –
oh, emma, oh emma –
and then never shall you
part from us both…
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I love it; and I love the last couple of stanzas or whatever they are. They are beauty.