1440 13 8
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Spying is a different concern. Privacy also. I feel there is a loss of privacy just in believing or realizing it is possible; our forebears did not experience loss of privacy digitally, perhaps in another way.
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1440 4 1
|
This poem first appeared in “Walt’s Corner” of The Long Islander, founded by Walt Whitman in 1838.
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1440 9 4
|
When we are given eternity, as a night is eternal
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1440 12 6
|
Have you heard this yet? The daughter flew home to care for the mother, whose pump is still tick ticking—though now with aid—which means she leaves the kitchen when the microwave clicks on.
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1440 6 6
|
With their brightly-colored bits of
found string
woven into the walls of their nests
to teach their baby birds
what the worms of the future
will look like.
Somewhat like the
cave paintings of Lascaux
for early man in France,
when hunti
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1440 2 0
|
I can't believe it's Frankie, but there he is at a table on the far side, just in front of the big picture window. I hold the menu close to my face and peek again over the top, watching as he reaches under the white linen tablecloth to plant…
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1440 3 3
|
“Sandy likes the way Bob spanks, when he’s done she gives him thanks."
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1440 2 1
|
if you don't quiver with anticipation you'll barely manage to explode
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1440 4 2
|
If this road could answer
I would ask her what it is like
to follow the path
of the rippleshimmery river
for too many miles
through the slowly ghosting towns
and the corncovered landscapes
of the dying Midwest
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1440 6 2
|
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1440 8 7
|
The winter’s too warm for the bears to sleep,
and they get up in the middle of the night
with insomnia and wander about the streets
in their pajamas, knocking over garbage cans,
looking for a midnight snack of some kind.
They’re getting kind o
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1440 11 6
|
I suppose it was inevitable, This crashing of souls, This recognition of possibility to create. If we were younger, We would make a baby, The ultimate act of faith. Now it has to be something else, Nothing to force a track with night feedings, …
|
1440 11 7
|
You are a warm winter
Despite the presence of snow
|
1440 11 5
|
Blue skies greet us as we exit the forest . . .
|
1440 3 1
|
Sheep are very philosophical, I hear. Stop this hopeless dreaming.
|
1440 5 6
|
Sometimes I think living in a house with so many rooms /
you can get lost just making your way to the fridge /
should be enough. I chastise myself for wanting more.
|
1440 3 2
|
Boil (n.)––1. Pus-filled pustule inflammation of the skin, usually painful. 2. Slang boiled pus, bucket of (n. phrase)“Your asshole brain is a bucket of boiled pus.” (see also pus, SCOTTISH derogatory term for face.
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1439 10 7
|
You stretch my heart / in sacred ways
|
1439 8 6
|
It was your present world that seemed more than mad to me. Your polished stiff brown shoes that always squeaked like mice, while the latest rude Bombers bubbled up in their comfortable Dart-board garages like apple pies…
|
1439 6 5
|
I know someone in need of healing.
|
1439 2 1
|
The blaring scream from my alarm clock suffices as my wake-up call. It disrupts me from my dream state that I so rarely get the privilege to experience any more. I've always loathed that alarm clock, so I turn it off in the most sensibly aggressive manner I know how: just…
|
1439 0 0
|
A life in NYC was one I always dreamed of but I found myself turning into a bitter, sarcastic person who was losing the ability to see the silver lining in just about anything.
|
1439 5 5
|
There’s someone in the audience who is immolating himself
Cutting his own leg over and over with a pen knife
And groaning: “Oh God, oh God”
And all I can think from up at the podium is
This guy must absolutely hate these poems
I am reading
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1439 4 2
|
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1439 3 1
|
It was more than just taste/
more than a point of view/
and oil and pigment/
that painted a store front church/
a box with a cross in a vacant lot/
that welcomed desperation, faith/
and imagination.
|
1439 2 1
|
Vietnam, Tet, and beaucoup Charlie
|
1439 2 0
|
Each had jostled and laboured for his or her place upon the blunt outcrop, in the cold persistent darkness, where the outcrop was merely something that had fallen and not quite been washed away.
|
1439 2 2
|
My Thursday head belonged to a former Miss Brazil named Rita.
|
1439 3 0
|
blackberry pie and huckleberry wine and litte Maria with her summerset bangs
|
1439 8 7
|
By the sixth - Dizz, Falstaff buzzed - Croons - The Wabash Cannonball
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