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Poetry

Poetry that only appears online, not in the journal

Frost Bit

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say Vanilla Ice
From what I’ve tasted of desire,
I’m thinking of a funeral pyre.
But if you had to ask me twice,
I’d throw the dice.
Bring Kid Rock over for a round or two,
Burn one or two or three or four,
Look out for lice. Watch the backyard
Barbecue glow. Orange in the night.
Let’s do it twice.

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This Evening From Far Away

The jackals have their sideways reproaches,
the great-aunts their brooches crusted
with emeralds or rubies or paste, the wine

has its slowness, the commuter her haste
but inside each thing is also something other,
strange, counter, shadow of an airplane

inside the raincoat, chessman in the otter,
pirouette in the luncheonette, note
emerging two octaves out of range.

Everlasting is comrade to this moment’s
flash; glance away, it’s another day,
you’ve lost one chance but here’s another,

some cash, a sublet by the water; all
this bother moving place to place, shifting
syntax, anxiety attacks, the fights

and late-night make-ups, disgrace,
mercy in the friend’s face may make rich
recollection lying on the deathbed or

seconds after a head-bonk ends it
and from eternity’s cracked-open lid
that first pet the vet injected

while you held a paw and wept
bounds forth as if from your own chest
to greet you.

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Things Lost in Translation

Tell me something I haven’t heard before
How bridges in Paris are rusting bolt by bolt
and rivers are tired of their secrets
How night loves to wash your body

Empty the words from your pockets
rearrange the stars if you have to,
but tell me something untold before

How your desire never sleeps
How your heart shatters like glass
when you break bread with your father

Tell me how you invite transgressions
and slip knots around the waist of afternoon
so twilight never leaves your side

Weave syllables into a net that stretches
from the flea market on the outskirts of this city
all the way to the back alleys of your childhood

then speak to me in your native tongue
so I may grasp things lost in translation
and hold them like saltless tears
or small fires burning in wilderness

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