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Let me tell you about one of the days I was serving as a
druid in my forest.
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His knee ached again. It always bothered him this time of
year, of course, but that wasn't what troubled him, he
thought. His skin was slightly irritated, especially where
it used to touch hers, but that wasn't it either. It was a
sunny day, as most were
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There must have been thousands of them. Tens of thousands.
Hundreds of thousands. He
couldn't count them all even if he tried. Well, at least not
out loud. There were moons and
forests and brooks, songs and parodies, lost and familiar,
snowy peaks and s
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The damned contraption refused to sync with his computer,
and when it finally did, there was always a song missing or
the wrong album artwork displayed. 'J. Lo's ass!'
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"כיוון שבסך הכל, הטבע שלהם טוב מנעוריהם (למרות שהנעורים שלהם
טובים יותר מהם) והרי יש להם פוטנציאל אדיר! אבל הם כל כך
טיפשים. כל כך מטומטמים. זה פשוט מתסכל, אתה לא חושב?", שאלתי
את הכרטיסן.
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I stare,
Somewhat teary-eyed
At the dust
Covering the silent monito
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I stare,
Somewhat teary-eyed
At the dust
Covering the silent monitor
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Once again I am enshrouded with that white mist,
Encompassing my vision and blurring sensation
Like an evil trip
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The sights confuse me;
I lie baffled on the floor of my mind
Clad in second rate loin cloth
That had to be mine
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Muscles flow and following through
Like an endless Zeno's paradox.
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I float again in the grieving wonder
An empty flame in thy midst,
Hovering and winking in the husk
Of what's left
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They, like the consciousness within,
Hallow the wild distances of the soul
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It is only deep within the nebula
That the words are liberated
And once again receive their lost meaning.
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I must tell her what is known,
What is long lost and long ignored;
That which I readily fear
Yet here so anxious to reveal.
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Aftermaths replenish themselves
On our lost hopes in this future,
Feeding on repercussions we
Dare not avoid and nightmares
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Something you've missed,
Something you long for;
Something untold in less
Than perfect tact on the
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Riddles form on top the clogged fireplace,
Its mantle dimly reflects her bloody breath,
Consumed by the analogies and future hysteria,
Ebbing silently to the foggy street outside.
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"What is the fragrance of a sun beam?"
Asked the lover of her mate.
"I do not know, beloved", he replied
"But it is all over in your hair".
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I come back,
The city lingering at the doorway
Pausing shyly at the out of place
Refrigerator in the hallway
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the golden dragon turneth sage
its youngling gone and he's with age.
its treasure he values beyond count
she is there with him under the mount.
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The tower hovering outside my window
Is not a reflection of my soul;
I must accept that.
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My field of vision narrows
At the two butterflies
Twirling in the sun
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The mindless wheat
Fulfills that which it sows
On the hard brownish land,
A stool to rest the splinter soles.
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So I looked at it amazed,
Wondering at what had just
Passed down before my eyes,
Trying to ignore the smell of cigarettes.
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Interrupted, I turn angrily
Towards myself, pausing only
To catch a passing glance
At the undying monitor
Across.
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That salty smell of froth and starfish
Evokes a longing I cannot accurately recall.
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Where has Calliope left her bread crumbs for me?
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And through the years of tenderness
We miss those that followed
Illicit in their own path
Though unaware, it seems, of other things
Other nights gone by, whole moons vanished
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He came and went and locked the door
And nothing was just like before.
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Readdressing your wounds
I find myself wandering
Across the vast mistake that led us here,
To your bed.
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Darkness overtakes us now;
No longer able to flee its heavy burden,
We are numbed while you nibble carelessly at my ear.
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Our eyes barely meet
as we pace to the door.
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Smelling of the tides of war,
My faithful dog bites itself,
Trying vainly, discourtesy aside,
To reach the common goal
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Your golden hair now flecked with white
Shining eerie in the pale moonlight;
Come sit beside me, my dark fire
Let us sing and tell tales to befit this mire.
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Cornered look upon her face
And you -
You can't look at it without wondering
Was blond really her color?
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One thing leads to another,
The joke long foretold so presumed
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Is language the true barrier? Then why don't I write?
If thought is its own pretense, why does it delight?
Who am I to think me changed? The former or the latter?
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Limiting enlightened sooth,
Filling young with fancied notions,
Watch their heads! Their frantic motions!
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How I long to touch you,
To caress the filaments through,
Your small being encapsuled
Getting ready to assault.
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O ancient who hath forgotten
That which you never knew;
O traveler, will thou rest tonight?
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The leaves rustle softly,
Trees whisper in idiosyncrasy
And the brilliant shadow approaches
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where as to live
quiet in the moonlight
walking under trees
gasping for air
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Painstakingly denied,
The now square frame hovers in the boughs.
No longer lilting as it is despised,
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Old Moses jostles slowly,
His vivid eyes are but a memory;
The street is wide and so-so long,
Now he's here and then he's gone.
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Pausing smiles and driving sorrows
Slipping by their stainless hollows;
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Another year, another drink,
A little closer to the brink,
I stumble slowly on this ship,
Hesitant to find a grip,
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Atop a sidewalk in our fair
City, the box awaits
The black messenger;
Across the violent flux
The trees hasten their
Flee for freedom
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and there was this girl,
you see,
with a light green sweater
and deep grey eyes
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Ho, little talons,
How you rapture my soul.
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Once in a while I go through the names
Of those I remember, of those with the flames,
I smile at their folly and cry with their souls
Endless potential there crashed on my shoals;
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I hear the distant rumble,
The dusk sky seem so bland,
Quiet in this weary breeze
Of a long afternoon.
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Two poems I've lost today
Though they didn't fall out of my pocket
Completely gone and vanished have they
And I dare not mock it
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Garments wrought in steel,
Flow like Iceman marble
On the floor;
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Where do we go when we're wrong?
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For brilliance, your own, has sated them
And brought burning comfort to their midst
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Midnight Near Dawson City
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אם אין אני לי
מילי ונילי?
אפרוח ורוד
עדיין חי
באייטיז. |
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