Kathleen Everett And The Depiction Of
Poet jacob erin-cilberto Meets Bukowski—And Then Himself
turning into Bukowski
i fell in love with...
pastured parliaments, mad rivers
autumns in New England
and Eiffel Towers in the Bronx
that paled in comparison
to that foreign one that wasn't surrounded
and hop scotch chalk lines
and disheveled poets
on street corners
trying to sell their words for a few drinks
and that spit shine
fella dreaming of collared shirts
and brazen ties
bought for the company Christmas affair
and maybe a back room mama
who had one too many,
and was giving something besides
a grab bag present,
or maybe she wasn't
and then i blinked
and fell out of love with...
subway thoughts, underground morals
dreams of Europe
and strolled ever so pretentiously
into a 9 to 5 existence
sweating ink onto pages
of routine banishment
an exile into a normal life
begging for another fantasy
then settling for a drink or three
to forget who i really am.
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This morning is tinted with ghost-light
Ripe honeydew cubes glisten on the cutting board.
I cover the walls with pages from Vogue:
lips and ribs and skin.
I have two wrists, one navel and three voices.
Rub honey on my lips. My skin
cracks like a cocoon;
a skeleton walks out and sunlight passes through.
Back to you
Tonight the sky’s a dusty chalkboard
with a translucent moon cut from thin paper.
Love, draw me some yellow stars
so I can find my way back to you.
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that biting winter
my sister carried me
over hungry snowbanks
that swallowed our footsteps
before the bus opened its mouth
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The House, Exhaling
Red light pulses through the fog, car windows sweating
bloody in the early morning light.
Their voices chatter like east flying birds
as they huddle against the gray bay wind.
From across the street, the house stares with dead eyes,
words creeping like a scattered emergency bulletin, eaten by radio
through its open doors.
a body white sheets
We would have helped,
if we had known.
And the house exhales,
scraps of newspaper fluttering through the doors
and windows like hundreds of wings.
Four bodies wrapped in blue
carry one body wrapped in white,
skin all twisted up
like dried paper, foxed with age,
and her body is loaded into the back of the ambulance
and somewhere that night
a paramedic will cry, for one more body he couldn't revive,
and tonight, through open windows, the house will breathe
in after years of only exhaling,
till the wood of its lungs will feel like it could burst.
And it would weep if only it could,
tears dripping down its dusty windows, candles pulsing on its steps
in the yellow rhythm of prayers spoken too late.
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From Matthew Henningsen, A Glimpse Of The (Un)Civil War
Again they flee through us,
Ash-smeared men, delirious
With fear, men of bright
White teeth glinting in
Scorching, dry July heat
That makes delicate ladies in pink
Petticoats sweat bullets that smear
And blear bulbous, top-hatted
Men, resplendent in red vests
That cling too tightly to
Fat arms with dirty nail tips
That point and poke and prod at
The wild men rushing through,
The wild men rushing through.
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VerseWrights Warmly Welcomes Poet
We Extend A Warm Welcome To Poet Christine L. Villa
from Selected Tanka
all these things
we kept avoiding
to talk about . . .
the built-up fluff
in the dryer lint trap
behind the mauve shades
of mountain dusk . . .
how I long to know
if you're waiting for me
where petals unfurl
into subtle shades
like the clouds in the sky
I am a birdsong waiting
to be heard
the full moon
too huge for my heart
I walk alone
in the growing scent
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Neil Fulwood And The Joys Of Hiking,