Category: articles
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016: The Rime of the Ancient Astronaut or Robots, Robots Everywhere
I There was an ancient Astronaut who stopped me in the street I asked him, “By my glittering suit why are you stopping me?” He held me with his shriveled hand and said, “I flew my ship beyond the grasp of gravity, fresh fruit juice, naps, or chips.” I sat my rump upon a…
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015: Ode to a Carpenter
In hopes that the world relents before breaking your back for a third time Below the old dark basement stair there sat your drafting desk, whose nuts, whose rambling arms belied the old fine flicker of forge and vat, of framing, making, building, dreamt-up forms, of vision, hope from unsung pioneer will one day invent…
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013: For Grandpa Schaubert, On His Eightieth
Like the time we made eight dozen swords from scraps of short-term fences like gardens grown in backyard troughs require all five senses like smells of Summerfest behind, of corn dogs, sweets, Budweiser like sounds of Glory up ahead, of laughter, song, advisers like sights of Gateway Arches, woods, a Florida beach in winter like…
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011: Concerning the Halfway Mark by Turkey Creek Where I Parked My Bike and Turned off the Noise
As water when in droplets formed falls winded down from leaves when rain returns cold fire upon two breathless, dusty forms as liquid courage quickens lungs, roots feet upon hot hearth invokes our subterranean fire by song, by spit, by drink as chill Noreaster wets her brother Southern Wind’s dull heat begetting the brimstone pillers,…
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009: History
Concerning the reason “history” historia in Koine meant “finding out” or “narrative” from which we get our word: Story. I read Mallard today: Rhythm of breadth & Richness & again Breadth, like a powerful life-pulsation, the phenomenon of language articulates the history of a culture.
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008: At Party, Surrounded By Men
Do? That’s an interesting question… What do I do? Well, I suppose if you’re asking who I am I’m still discovering I’m learning to know mineself I’m Lance, the Lance articulated— now watch the tongue, the cleft palate, as the beast stares into the mirror, pronouncing his name, name that dilates his pupils and matches…
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005: Listory
Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23. These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24th birthday on April 30th – and I had…
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004: How I’d like to be Remembered (as a Writer)
Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23. These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24th birthday on April 30th – and I had…
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50 @ 25 002: Black Market Milk
Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23. These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24th birthday on April 30th – and I had…
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50 @ 25: Another Epic Journey in Manful Poetry
Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. Conviction from said knowledge resulted in 46 poems written at 23. These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24th birthday…