Category: Poetry
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The Wild West — from 58 poems written at 29
The Wild Wild West is what they call Baltimore’s broken — the battered western End of The East. With Indians murdered, A white western needs rewritten as an Eastern In this city’s sinning. For soon The Black Man is made a modern native And Manifest Destiny masquerades As eminent domain. Even the firemen Ponder the plastic…
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Locusts — from 58 poems at 29
How did it happen? How did the most Important point and poem of sound In our day indict dapper slices Of itself and shrink slowly to the noice Of phones buzzing? Petty to trade The cuckoo clock or the bells Of the belfry tower at the best hours Of vigils and vespers or the violin…
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Ash Wednesday — from 58 poems written at 29
It was the palm’s power to pick the one Who would have the honor. Healers and kings And prophets and priests enpalmed like the actors Who ready for the road of red carpet And the fanning of fans’ fingers and extra — EXTRA! — Excerpts from the excess paper Runs The Register or rather The…
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Giving Up Reading News — from 58 poems written at 29
…is harder than hearing. How you shatter Bones as a boy before the season Ends and you ache to even the score And return to the team, or take a sick Gardener’s groaning for the great outdoors Or a landlocked lady of the water Or a shut-in sailor. Soon you will find the lane to…
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Vanilla — from 58 poems written at 29
Vanilla bean never annunciates tastes So great as when the grave gravity of beer Powers it in its wake like a primed river Boat or a barge or beluga whales Who wave at the sea and wake the deep In the slash of that split spade of leather And blubber and blowholes. It breaks the…
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Baltimore Buildings
…are a weird weave. Windows, for instance, Speak of the seasons of certain men In America and their Maids — of the Michigan sticky And Virginia giant juniper leaves And the Boston bricks baking and the drenched Patoka tempest that tidally rises The rivers nine. Read of the south’s And the northern nuance’s names and acts…
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Megabus Moon Roof — from 58 poems written at 29
The overpass eats, opens like The Dark To swallow the shuffle. See how the glass Of our double decker darkens and the ear Is silence-shuttered? Space comes to mind Millennium Falcon’s maiden plunge In the belly of the beast. Back when Han Was still scared of sharper teeth And the bowels of bore worms the…
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Daylight and the Stand — from 58 poems written at 29
…anyways authors arm their minds With the rinds of ruined rights and their power To bind black burdens of fears That find them flailing in the ferret holes Of vain environs developers dug Out of stone or stock, steel or river Like holes in holy hearths or the essence of elements like earth. Earning your…
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CSA Potluck — from 58 poems written at 29
Ciders spiked and the simmering wild rice that she rendered in a root soup for the CSA staff and Martín as we planned produce. Patience is a talked dialog dance. We drive one another nutso with no thought To listen along out of love for the mind Of fellow men: we fight for time to…
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Evil is My Disease — from 58 poems written at 29
Boethius claimed badness or the wicked Or evil is a disease, even as weakness Wanes the body. Well, then, I Am so sick, my friend. See my shakes? See my quaking? Soothing balms Of wiser words evade my mind And its dreaming machine. A dry and an arid Landscape was seeded along the trenches Of…
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Yoke of the Mother — from 58 poems written at 29
A Queen is a King who carries the weight Of the world within her. Enwombing the younglings And entombing their titles, taking their passings On a pilgrimage or a parade. Powder she spreads — The ashes of embers that echo the flames Of memories marking men and their gains And lovings or leavings. The leftovers…
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A Drizzle in Brooklyn — from 58 poems written at 29
A drizzle in downtown Duenweg is something Like my wife waking and the water of her shower Misting me while I make my chin Clean with the cutting. The crisp mist Is a walk by a wayward water fountain Or a splash pad. Spread the mist Over the evening and aim it at me And…