JACK GALMITZ ant ant ant ant ant 12

April 30, 2013 § Leave a comment

THE COINCIDENCE OF STARS

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Home an acorn on the floor
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Between the dust and the books a few deaths
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Amateur night

I sit on the stage

and imitate a stone

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In the crowd

I multiply

and divide

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Snowdrifts

The morning moon

is a fist

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Morning boiling milk overflowed
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A field of new grass so soft I hold my wake here
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Coins in my pocket

Watching seals

swim in circles

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The sky has cleared-

daily a darkness

spreads within me

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At the zoo

I describe to the monkies

the sky’s many blues

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Male parts and female parts am I a flower

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Where I’ve been I cannot say I’m him

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A chick

cracks open its shell-

the world rushes in

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Those clouds

War horses

at their hour

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Winter night

two men pass

without a sound

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The son of man returns fruit carts stacked

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Space junk who’s going to clean it up

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cars pass melting

in an empty wine bottle

a man’s reflections

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along the shore

a row of girls

all in white clothes

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Let’s find a shell

strip it

and make a bed

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We live in the dark the coincidence of stars

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traces of snow facing the morning moon

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She always remains

a step ahead

the marshlands of myself

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My face

was her face

in the beginning…

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Quattro cento face

the body a serpent

laying eggs

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oak leaves in the wind talking again

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gray matter, leaves, swept in a corner

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I cannot decide

which one I’d choose-

Caryatides

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Walking down the stairs

her bodies stir the sun

to be aware

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A prostitute

serves an acquaintance tea-

Sunday

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CROW HAIKU

April 5, 2013 § 1 Comment

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painted in a corner the crow licks the brushes

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the crow talks to ghosts with his hand in his pocket

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your daughter can pretend she doesn’t hear the crow

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no one knows where he sleeps the crow’s got no blanket

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after your war the crow sends a letter to his son

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you can kick him but you can’t kick the crow

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4:04:13

CROW HAIKU

March 27, 2013 § Leave a comment

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the crow often walks at angles

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the crow bites his tongue finds he has two

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under the crow’s feathers nobody knows his skin

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he gets itchy the crow grows hungry for blackberries

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who can take the crow talk to the seagulls

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the crow never sleeps but he makes you tired

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if the crow dances you better watch out

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at the station the crone always finds the crow

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he says maybe he really means no the crow

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3:25:13

2.14.13

February 18, 2013 § 3 Comments

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no

matter

what

I

fuck

up

the

daffodils

come

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(for John Martone)

VARIOUS ARTISTS ant ant ant ant ant three

July 11, 2012 § 1 Comment

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under butternut tree

ears of leaves

fondle light

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Guy R. Beining

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for a while

I look at my bike

without me

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the way

they fit

in her hand

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all of a sudden

the t.v.

doesn’t work

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Tom Clausen

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skidding petal bruises

on the concrete

rain like butter

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small creases in

your information filled with

anxious juices

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A. Daigu

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a few feet

from our feet

the ocean bottom starts

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snow flakes

no one will miss

melt in her hand

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Gary Hotham

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hairs

the many ants

amidst the grass

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hearing a car

that never comes

high pine wind

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Jim Kacian

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stray dog   window reflecting blue sky

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boldly staccato

fissures singing along

maps set aside

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city limits   bulrushes

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year of the pancreas

sandwich for dessert

theater seats upside-down

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M. Kettner

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my dealer says he’s

worried about me gives me

extra for free

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Xie Kitchin

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invited to feel

the stubble on her legs

autumn rain

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Shawn Lindsay

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pebble splash

all I hurl

sinks

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William M. Ramsey

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white blossoms

a fly brings their

beauty to me

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Edward J. Reilly

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In the phone booth

a little girl

talks to God.

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A man asks directions

hand over

his mouth.

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Alexis K. Rotella

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Thesaurus of whites

Moth of months circling itself

Idiot savant

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Dennis Saleh

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Wakened by someone scratching at the window it’s the rain again

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Hot night   a yellow-toothed moon gnaws at the screens

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Turning on the light I become someone alone in a house

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Sam Savage

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the Loki seed

pushed down in the grey folds

until you laugh

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Sean Winchester

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JIM WESTENHAVER ant ant ant ant ant 11

April 25, 2012 § Leave a comment

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empty tree the forest on the subway

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saving the pine cone a cup of tea on the toilet

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the raindrop knows the brow of the moon

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sperm whale sleeping losing weight on the couch

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substitute teacher the harbor seal riding a wave

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where is the shell the egg in the garbage can

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minding the cormorant writing on a piling

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soft petal the lake in the mood to grow

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say what the fence is the answer

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the space between she takes off her shoes

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ever since you know the drill flower

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at the very least the willow tree backdoor

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somewhere a leaf on the move in the city

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threading the needle she smiles at dawn

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tide flat in the alley dream

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rooftop flower the heron at dusk

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cooling down a hip a body of water

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the rain is upside down in the sink

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she knows the name seagull in flight

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ask me pine cone on the trail

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CHRIS GORDON lost & found times 41 (1998)

January 27, 2012 § Leave a comment

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thick hailstones in April I keep swallowing my tail

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all these lights they’re humming uncomfortable in every position

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no continuous skyline the relentless efficacy of breasts

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behind the buildings the lake obscured by fog downstairs they’re fighting

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balled up in the shower her wet dress the soughing darkness

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wood smoke in the warm afternoon the deaf woman talks to herself

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she whispers in another language the intermittent rumble of the elevator

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a blue door tied down to the top of a car the smell of cut grass

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not much to say there’s a helicopter

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The Martian Chronicles read over the phone unsteady hand-jobs

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too windy for a hat sheets of newspaper slap the chain-link fence

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dream hungry the call of a crow on the telephone pole

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saxophone practice upstairs the machine fills with water

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in the brief blue flash of the train’s light on the tunnel wall abhor

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slowing down you can smell yourself

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CHRIS GORDON ant ant ant ant ant five

January 24, 2012 § 1 Comment

SHE ROUSES BRIEFLY AND SAYS DRAGONFLY

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distance acquiesces to heat you tell the fly he’s ephemeral

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the vents are being replaced I touch your drink by mistake

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where the lines end and the absence begins an architecture or so

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abruptness of seed taking orders from the smaller machines

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I get on top of you they start playing a commercial

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an eye tuned to the scrape of a chair an ambulance

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milt of friction the ring where the ring keeps the light from her skin

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pea on the trajectory of a scratch I will be a Ghost Dance

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all along the tracks splintered shapes swelling in the rain

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we talk about our childhood TV shows as if they were festivals

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moon a tear made in the sky with a fingernail don’t answer the door

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in the dream I was Danae waiting for a drip from the ceiling

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that dark thing in the green of your eye next to the window that’s me

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tensile strength of thistle the outcome of serotonin and loophole

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where she points at the red flower I don’t see anything

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we both wind up in the fruit aisle one of the lights above blinks out

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tell me what we’ll do on a bench by the river when no one’s around

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soaking in a jar for three days the beans are pink and ready to split

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aren’t all prophesies self-fulfilling sugar written in Spanish

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the oven opens to the smell of sweet potatoes your panties

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her ringed fingers twitching she rouses briefly and says dragonfly

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an act of transcription closes the flower travel a violence

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we exhaust the five hundred gimmicks like metal eucalyptus leaves

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my face a trapdoor spider candy foil floats along the dark train floor

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Lyric Intervention painted over All Day I Dream About Sex

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all the slurring and none of the puncture no I said sects

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weeds as tall as roses what I threw out the window when we fought

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between the cars of the train her body turns from yellow to blue

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a plum seed flushed down the toilet they found the arctic’s melted

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if this were an espionage film we’d all be dead

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OCTAVIO PAZ modern haiku 36.1

January 21, 2012 § 2 Comments

A DAY IN THE CITY OF LAKES

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The white palace

white on the black lake

lingam and yoni

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As the goddess does the god

night has encircled me

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The cool veranda

You are boundless, boundless

but surveyable

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The stars they’re inhuman

This hour though is ours

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Falling I rise

Burning I grow wet

Do you have only one body?

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Birds skimming the water

Dawn comes to my eyelids

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Filled with thoughts

immense as death itself

the marble looms over you

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Palaces run aground

their whiteness is adrift

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Women and children

roam through the street

fruit scattered about

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Flashy rags or lightening?

A procession on the plain

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Cold and jingling

on their wrists and ankles

bands of silver

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In a rented suit a guy

goes to his wedding

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Clean and draped to dry

among the stones clothes

you watch in silence

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On the island monkeys

with red asses are screaming

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Sun dim in the heat

Hanging from the wall

a wasp’s nest

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My face is also the sun

of blackened thoughts

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Flies and blood

fill the courtyard of Kali

A young goat flits about

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Eating from the same plate

gods and men and beasts

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Over the pale god

the black goddess

dances headless

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Heat and the hour splits open

These rotting mangoes

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Your face a lake

smooth, without thoughts

Out splashes a trout

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Afternoon’s gone

Lights kindle over the water

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A rippling in

the golden plain and a grotto

Your clothes nearby

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Over your body in the shade

I am like a lamp

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A scale made of

living bodies bound together

over the void

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The water sustains us

The sky overwhelms us

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I open my eyes

How many trees were born

just last night

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What I’ve seen and wanted to say

the white sun blots out

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El Dia en Udaipur translated by Chris Gordon

VARIOUS ARTISTS ant ant ant ant ant four

January 15, 2012 § 1 Comment

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pagan tulip crescent often spot remove meadow

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Michael Basinski

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racked up in splendid blood

bones of the ryeman

in the thin wings of grass

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Guy R. Beining

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sigh   lens   hair

(retensions)

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hand around you faceless

daughter blue pond and

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heaving

other clouds

“my name”

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John M. Bennett

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molding oranges

numbers radiate from

a digital clock

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Jason Sanford Brown

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One little nail-hole

treasured as the gateway

its mystery breath

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Bill DiMichele

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waiting for her to stick her tongue in my mouth an autumn sunburn

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Chris Gordon

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most of beauty is iceburgs

the topic crowds with horror

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late patterns of thought

media pretends

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Crag Hill

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clear winter day

over the radio

the first bombs

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Dorothy Howard

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3am

divining god’s law

from raw onions

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gazing on

her sleeping back

sounds of rain

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Jim Kacian

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cattle sleeping

moonlight on their backs

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a cold scream

narrowly occult

ridge draped in dusk

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M. Kettner

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spitting lit matches

into gasolined brambles

shave till opening

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Buspar plural plural

speaking Farsi backwards

on the phone

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Xie Kitchin

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long-lit afternoon

a cut

unhealed

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ai li

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road salt

tumbling in the vacuum of

an ambulance

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Shawn Lindsay

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forked lightening

out over the ocean

her warm fingers

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evening breeze

a white moth floating

in the dishwater

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pear slice falling

to the kitchen floor

pale moonlight

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Paul M.

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dark

the TV ignores

everything

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John Stevenson

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on the drive

there and back

a pine needle in the wiper

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French graffiti   I drop a coin in the phone booth

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overdue   my dead neighbor’s library book

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Michael Dylan Welch

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