Is This the Street I Grew Up On?
By macserp
recent short poems
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- 1222 reads
My Endemic
My Endemic. Scraping another night at the chin, the lights are brilliant with wine and cigarettes window shopping for the holiday in advance of nothing to buy. Someone tells me it will be okay,
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- 814 reads
A Snarl in the Pocket
A Snarl in the Pocket. Jack Mead, a sentient man. A man on whom the street opens. Collides. Fishes around in his guts like rusty hooks. Swallowed a long time ago when they were sharp. My little uglies. He referred to them. His viscera, scraped, churning, leaking out.
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- 835 reads
Abyss, a poem.
Abyss. What words are these like paper in my teeth? When we open our windows in the morning they will not sound, and yet we throw them each night into our emptiness, lowering ourselves
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- 621 reads
Boom.
Boom. All of this hell up into me precious little stem - where go not flower? where go not wilt? where go not die? where go not break a little by day and split at
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- 935 reads
Come Clown, Let's Go
Come Clown, Let's Go (for my dog Shaft) Andiamo pagliaccio vieni qui! The morning nuts are slippery. Let's walk over them slowly and climb the hill just like the old days, smelling eucalyptus
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- 814 reads
Countdown to Paulie Pod, A Poem
To my daughter
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- 897 reads
Interstate 40, Poem (Cycles I-V for Joe M.)
Interstate 40, Cycles I-V. (for Joe M.) I. Flying over Atlanta neighborhoods segregated by winter woods. A bare-tree parapet, pipeline for rusted cars and thieves.
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- 1338 reads
Nine Pound Paulie, A Poem.
A song a day for you, I hustle out of thin air spirituals or old blues mostly of fatherhood and desperation, your limbs relaxed on my chest like wet leaves- for me the years ahead are a weight
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- 688 reads
The Edge of Sleep, a poem
The Edge of Sleep. I watch the dust settle in on the morning light. Epidermis and cosmos dance a helix - silent messengers from the bracket worlds, paratroopers in a clandestine
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- 533 reads