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Archive for June, 2017

OH THOSE BRIGHT GIRLS
For Lina and Clara

Checking over their shoulders, they sit
and wait for angels, for princes,
for unicorns to carry them
over clouds only they can see

No time is wasted on the mundane –
the solid facts of mathematics
or periods of history that have
lived beyond their expiration dates

Their worlds are blank canvases
upon which they paint in colors
more vivid than others see, listen
to drumming no one else hears

They leap from subject to subjects
of their own choosing at a cadence
that defies the pedestrian logic
of classrooms and practiced lessons

When no one is watching they explore
the universe behind raised desk tops
and chase stars that fall from the far
corners of their imaginations

Posted 06302107

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CONTINUITY OF SELF

Before we are drawn into the ecstasy
of the mortal world we should address
the bleeding required    the wounds
that would lead to a longing for death.

Will the surprises of pleasure be worth
the sacrifices we must make were we to tie
ourselves to ribs,     learn the intricacies
of gravity and how to struggle with time?

Our perception of living will be skewed
by the quicksilver light into which
we will be born,     by conspiracies
of our souls should they acquire flesh.

Are we prepared to deal with inflated
appetites    reaching    dreaming    failing
and once set on our course, how will we deal
with tears of our lovers when we are born again?

Posted 06232017

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SOME STORIES ARE REAL

there is no lie
like the truth unspoken
about evil closer
than a stranger’s voice

about the flash of lust
in familiar smiles
or the heat of soothing touches
at bedtime

there is no pain
like facing a nightmare
that everyone you trust
says is nothing more
than a bad dream

Posted 06162017

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Crayons Optional

CRAYONS OPTIONAL

portraits of the dead
require no color
theirs is a mono-chrome
non-existence

their ghosts, like all apparitions,
are chalky white     against
dark shadows

their blood,
spilt or      coagulated
in veins,
is no more colorful
than the dreams
of cloistered monks       maybe
dark red-brown
but no more vibrant
than a gravestone

why, then, do women
in grey shawls
offer bright flowers
to corpses whose eyes
cannot see       who need
no reminder of the patina of life

and  why do they speak of     colorful pasts
as though the ashen ruins
over which they pray
might rise up (phoenix-like)
in kaleidoscopic hope

Posted 06092017

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