Little boy, you just have a patch to hide your nakedness. Patch after patch — too much needlework — until you are emperor. All patched up, no place to go.
Category: Poems
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Patchwork Pants
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Failed essays, each belying my immaturity… What am I saying? This is my life I lament: real life… lives. Their blood stains my hands. Why did I try to write with them. I lament spilling ink, but the sin is simpler: taking people’s lids off, handling their bottles.
Crime & Punishment
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If you allowed you to love yourself, the rough diamonds languidly studding all the curves of your underground, you would understand how silly it is to wish you were more. You already are so much.
The Love
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When I can afford no clothes, these I have are sanctified; the threadbare are forgiven and loved. That they exist is the miracle. That I have any at all is God’s blessing. When I can afford what is my wont, a new criteria rules the wardrobe. Holy is rendered crumby and the faith that held the threads together is unraveled; a new regime overlooks the angels guarding tramps.
Tom Sawyer
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When the sun colors the sky,
the girl dons on her red frock
embroidered with flowers,
is bevvied with joy,
dancing in celebration,
petal–eyelids open unto awe.
With just the same heart
When the moon woos,
our lady is wrapped
in her black dress,
bubbles and stews,
cackling, agape at the universe,
irises open to the multitude,
cherishing each star a sun.Witch’s Brew
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I didn’t realize the candle to refrain from hiding was my own, not some super–candle I would one day acquire or already had that was better than my real one. I didn’t realize the money to refrain from burying was my pocket change: all that I had in the world. I didn’t realize the virgins weren’t particularly chaste, but just so young they might not trust their own wicks.
Bushels and Virgins
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I kiss the light, bathed in love. I am exhausted and defeated, unable to deny my tragedies were my own concoction; it was me who held my nose as I imbibed its bitterness. Faith stands, still unblemished, present to life, vulnerable to wholesomeness, permissive of its good nature. She smiles as I let go of fear to hold the hand that was always there.
Kind Eyes
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I know not how many tiers your fountain. It proudly stands in the piazza. All I have is my pitter–patter, pitter–patter–pit, softly, gently, hard to notice — continually, till drip and splash and undulation, reverberation, over the edge and overflowing over every lip.
Cohesion
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Oh, drat. That worst kind of love, that listeth, smiles anon, does not scheme, expect, or devise, is content merely to be. Oh, this gets me nowhere, is too patient, has nothing to show for itself — careless: I cannot leverage you.
Stymied
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I’d go out into the world and find that marrow I feel in my bones must needs be found; a pause before the gate to check should there be anything upon these grounds or, maybe, give me time as I traipse amid the ants between the blades of grass here. I’m not going anywhere.
Thoreau
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