Author: harps mclean
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never sit with your back to a bookcase
i want to say something good like blood into a basin of stars but i’ve stopped listening to myself at least i think i have i am rolling metaphors over & over & something like a simile across the desk i tie imagery into individual burlap sacks about to them drop into a well when…
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Neruda at a frat party
you ask where the restroom is & i start to weep steam coming from my shadow as you walk away has light always stumbled pursed & curled like a pork rind when you walk into a room? will my teeth crumble like peppercorns if our eyes scissor or i try to speak? i forgive you–you…
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the peak of my literary career
as a boy i collected similes or things like them sorted roadside trash by first consonant put couplets of poetry on my bike spokes like playing cards no one understood or knew where i was going but i was on the local news once on my bike jumping 15 trash cans for national poetry month
