the amazing, terrestrial cube

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hit me in the party, where the

prowling scarred man

has light passing him and then

shinning inside of him.  His eyes

have wind blowing into them,

the coffee grounded vortex.  mathematical

equations and planetary juxtaposition.

 

When metaphor is dead, the voices

need to switch, boy to girl, south to north,

drug to sea urchin

 

a village on a plain, no foreigner had

been able to stand on the white rocks.  they’re

hair on their arms would

grow.  the lice would crawl in from

celestial rays.  what does she have to

say to them?  will they know who

to believe?  does the sound she make

recall any eternal spirit?

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a mullet of unproportionate desires

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if your dreams were of a zebra

and your life was like a jaguar,

would you imagine that you

belonged in africa?  when the

swords of time swam in

circles around your conscience,

who’s cause would you say

you were a soldier?  If you took me to

your hut and the wires were crossed

and inflammatory, would your rhetoric still

be sweet?  these are the arms

folded across eden, my fine

drinking friend.

burning papers, strawberry embers

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you spent your infancy with

palms spread out against

gold carpetng, pizza sauce spread out across

the sky, raining down on the seafaring

folk.  your older cousin comes home in

an accent you don’t recognize.  he tells you

all about africa and the colour of soils there, the

way that pizza tastes abroad, there are visions of

cliffs and chocolate lions prancing over

the edges, chocolate sundaes, cherries in the

eyes of the sun.

hi ho argento, lay low oregano

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a young man in paris on an autumn night

takes a train to a foreign city.  the journey is

long and shaded by moonlight, twisted words

bring a married school teacher to his

cabin and the two

wait for the day to break until

they share that what they both want is

a novel about the two of them to be

published and a wild sensation.  the man is

a refugee from benin and the

woman, the usurper of

youth is a traveller from a balken state,

croatia or slovenia.  the two cry at daylight,

there is nothing compelling their

journey to end, but each knows that

geneva comes for all of us, in this

life or the next.

and to prance away to metropoleis

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if the young one, holds the

ears of his cat and shouts

lines of poetry to the feeling, then

unheard of.  her cat runs to take the

train, the one to paris and she saunters

of towards ninteenth century belgium.  brussels

is for the lost, the murders and the mall

archways, the canines

barking with reporters and holding women

who have decided not to love, not hope or men

or women and children.

breathing in the glitz

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There is a shark at the bottom

of the ocean, with leopard teeth.  a writer

goes down, to watch it.  the writer

has no pen, for that would be ludicrous.  she

waits for it to move, for patterns of behaviour to

illicit thought. showers beyond measure

penetrate the surface of the sea, rain turns to ice, ice

turns to snow, leopard sharks change to penguins.

the writer stays in place, eyes not moving,

skin not pruning.  pollution surrounds her,

diapers for baby penguins, luggage for

traveling salesmen.

death of metaphor/hands turning to ghost appendages

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the look in his eye was

curious. there was flannel cloth on

the floor, cut in every direction, reefer

grown and jazz music spreading

in the basement.  a foreign soldier

jumps inside and

throws a light grenade.  There are

women standing on the stairs, watching, one kneeling

on every step, their faces, encircled with linen chanting

the prayers of a generation, but nothing

more and nothing remembered.

fireflies not thoughtbubbles

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across a distant horizon there

is a boy waiting for his father, who’s

been marching, out lasting his

captors.  the young child has only

learned how to speak, but

the father has with him

pictures of his journey, through jungles

and ancient myth, there was a woman he

says, who may have been his mother, but she fell

from the height of a large volcano and

then dove head first into a lagoon

at moonlight, the magma had hardened into an

island, a place where the

features of

time had first been conceived.  the child

recognises his dad, his facial features

are nice like his.  there is an oasis, a far oasis

that is good and captivating.

what if i don’t actually exhale

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all the lights went out, lions and lives,

dimes and dollars.  the trobled teen watches

her boyfriend stumble upon heart failure,

he is on the pavement in the

rain, but she remains in the

attic of her grandparents, pushing change under

the doors, the veins of the leaves, the

colours making green.   love beyond borders, africa and

asia, far and faraway.