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The Day Job
A firefighter I am going to be a fire fighter just imagine confronting all that fear. They need certain people for all the small spaces. Just imagine how great it will be: write a poem; slide down the pole; write a poem; drink some beer; write a poem; put out the fires of dragons.
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Maker’s Mark
Phil says the writing is made out of reading, but it is more a matter of overwriting, of under- writing, of something erased coming to the surface, the long years, random papers found in a box. The box is not a window. The papers are turning to dust. I take myself out of the box […]
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Poem
Graphic as a flower blooms a split lark’s minor stream
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Petals
the stretched out to never look at feet in the same “evening” dim lifts the crakly feet of sum animate animals straighten backs o r Spokey bike crush, portlandly scuffed up leg. electric track – esplanade St. John’s Bridgely. Christ Biota scaling petals that to some may seem indicated. II. it’s not the indication when […]
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On the Edge (2001)
Neighboring islands, North of storm. Words hold as much As words allow – White indiscriminate Waves and rocks, A tempest Friedrich Would have painted Stratocumulus, astride Some distant, German peak.
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Collection Plate (to Romare Beardon)
We take doctrine particulate, pocket-money in nomine Patris who begets a settled mind its own occasion without predicate, grammar, and a period. Time compounded fastens the difference with a lick. A gummy envelope holds heaven and earth, a note and a song.
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Poem (Coriolanus)
Put down my name and stepped toward The awful thinking. Where is wound? Where harm? I entered the city gates and fought alone. Wounds? Mouths? Lethe is a river in a vein — pulsing through a body that bears a name others name — forgetful behind the eyes. Where is wound? Where harm? I fought […]
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In Baja for T.M.
We veered from asphalt to endure fifteen miles of tooth-rattling washboard through scattered organ pipe cactus and jagged road cuts, around hairpin turns. We arrived at a village that had escaped the cartographer’s attention. A few houses roofed with tin, a cinderblock church that would never grace a postcard. Where unpolished stones of the road […]
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12:44
To conserve ice, I rub it on burned fingers before putting it in my drink. The egg burning still. Lightning and sun on the leaves, blue-grey behind the brownstones. Too powerful, the bird call outside, above the chainsaw. Engine; bark; brakes: constant sounds of the city, not often helpful. I’ve brought no clothes for a […]