the dead parts of me

June 6, 2014 § 1 Comment

 

onion grass my son pukes in the sink

 

the moon who cares where it is

 

your feet they’re nicer than mine

 

bottle caps rattle among the spoons

 

the crow says something for the crows

 

asphalt heat and foreign policy

 

the dead parts of me pester the rest

 

stale crackers easy to put them back

 

your twat I never call it that

 

the cat’s meow what’s that really about

 

the penny not as old as it looks

 

the extra napkin always gets tossed

 

rain check nothing to do with the rain

 

your fingerprint a consistent prostitute

 

the place on you I know you can’t touch

 

box tops they usually tear anyways

 

nails one of them in my foot

 

sassafras people still actually say that

 

your panties entwined with my odd socks

 

toothpaste not sure what I’m supposed to think

 

all the knives clean I hit the lights

 

 

 

 

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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