ulysses
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Thu Apr-19-07 10:37 PM
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Post 'em if you got 'em. I'll start.
Thunderhead
Disinterred, twisted among chamisa and the adobe cathedral I have come here, naked, to the bloodless ground clutched in hands of bone, a place pregnant by a thousand others' names, a thousand lives the color of earth.
From a height that is above the sky the mountains life to taste the rain; with turning wind the mountains groan of Christ, mute to my ear, the rain a rosary of beads in the dirt.
In the cathedral's shadow pueblo women sit on the plaza, they are not of this time or of the cathedral; they are of the pueblo and the mountain, and the clouds and the rain. Their wheat-wrinkled hands rest from jewelry in the small of the afternoon.
Near them my August laughter falls dry and colorless to my feet; their silence asks the question for me, should you have come here? Did your flatland birth offer you a home where you were before? Your loneliness goes before you like a dog in the road.
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Chan790
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Thu Apr-19-07 10:43 PM
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Middle America
There is nothing sadder than a rainy day in middle America. Individual rain-tears falling drip drip drop drip against the old grey wet slate roof. Sitting in a chair which belongs to somebody I've never met, writing this as nothing goes on at 7:24am on a Saturday out a borrowed window into other people's lives looking out over those green grass lawns in middle America.
Goddamn, I hate you, middle America reflecting on my own lawn in new england, an 18th century industrial mill city: concrete, asphalt, patio stones, sidewalk tiles, gravel in rain-gutter ditches. I hate the way you condescend out there in middle America with your lush streets straddled in verdant sidewalk in ever-perfect lines framed in green grass lawns watered by millions of rain-tears falling.
drip drip drop drip dripping drops
Everything beautiful ends, even here in the middle America sometime and idyllic peace must too, as the author realizes that he is writing this exactly as it occurs out the window on middle America and immediately becomes self-conscious ... again.
Glassboro, NJ. June 2004
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ulysses
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Thu Apr-19-07 10:47 PM
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I'd like to hear that one live. Good performance piece.
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Chan790
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Thu Apr-19-07 11:18 PM
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which is funny because it's the medium I write for. Verbal. Poems in print always strike me as dead in some way.
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CaliforniaPeggy
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Thu Apr-19-07 11:24 PM
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4. Here's mine, such as it is: |
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When you go through something
Horrific
After you emerge
On the other side
Is it really still
You?
I don’t know anymore
Who I am
Someone has taken me away
And left this odd stranger
In my place
I don’t recognize me
Or you for that matter
Where did we go?
Who did we become?
Where is my soul?
Someone did something with it
Or maybe to it
Very odd
My inner landscape is gone
And replaced by this weirdness
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Chan790
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Thu Apr-19-07 11:35 PM
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CaliforniaPeggy
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Thu Apr-19-07 11:41 PM
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I am in shock at your praise....
Yours is so much better, IMHO....
And I love your style...
But I cannot write dense and lush poetry like that....
The words just don't come out of me that way...
Thank you...
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Blue-Jay
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Thu Apr-19-07 11:42 PM
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7. 'Twas in a restaurant that they met |
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Romeo and Juliet. He had no cash to pay the debt. So Romie owed what Julie 'et.
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DU
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Sun May 05th 2024, 03:10 AM
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