Apr
2013

Another day

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Grey as old bruises
A night
Waved goodbye to
Through a haze of pills
To silent
Creeping
Cranked-high nausea
Buttery butterflied inside
And dried
Bitten lips.
Kiss me
And my spirit drifts
From its monastic cloister
To drive back slum thoughts
Some caught
In this closed head.

Apr
2013

Late in the day

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The blade licks the whetstone
Dry
The blade sings
Memories
Of when it was rock.
The whetstone sings
Harmonies
Of when it was rain
Drumming,
Making puddles dance
When dinosaurs were distant dreams.
The harvest awaits
Under a boneless sky
Shivering in the warm air.
The blade now lies
Sharpened, ready
For tomorrow is its day.
The cooling breeze
Passes by
It cuts the sky to ribbons.

Apr
2013

Talking

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In a throat
stuck
words like a fishbone
choking
a hand
loosening a tie
like a noose
and the eyes say it all
nothing here is true
and speaking slowly,
the truth, slowly,
comes peeping around the lies
and dances naked before the world
while the speech continues, confounding and comforting
spinning a spider’s steel-hard web to snare
and draw back in
that truth.

Dec
2012

Brief thoughts on poetry

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Poetry, I told myself this morning, is stained glass. Language is like a sheet of glass, a window. Beautiful, often; functional, it allows us to see the world without being in it, and usually we catch our own reflection as we look, fading ghostlike into the landscape. Hard and unyielding, language can be melted and reformed, though it always comes back to what it is, what it was.
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