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Enter title here. There is an easier way to create. Add media, add poll, ADD CONTACT FORM! And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Publicize: Not Connected. Show image, video, quote.  All categories (most) used.

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Word count: 49
saved at 8:53:11 pm.:)

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Posted by on May 1, 2017 in Uncategorized



Poem #2

If I cooked like you, I’d start with a box of recipe cards
Heritage, very precious, perhaps worth some money, published
stored under six other heavier boxes of old textbooks
in a locked storage unit across town.
I’d have key, somewhere
Where was it, again?
It will turn up eventually, for sure.

In that box would be a card
with a recipe for divinity
which had never actually set properly
any of the times your mother made it,
but if only the temperature and humidity were just right,
it really would be to die for.
I would remember her making it,
and would put it on the menu for our anniversary–all for the
special memories, sweet smells,
and a burnt pot that had to be thrown out.

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Posted by on April 2, 2017 in Arts, Poetry and Music


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Poem #1

When I went big
Something opened
in the wall behind which
I typed, unknown.
Voila! They all marveled
and wanted what I had

Contemporary fame is arbitrary
a viral meme
picked up by chance.
Yet why not pretend
it was meant to be–
me being, after all
a genius.

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Posted by on April 1, 2017 in Arts, Poetry and Music


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Borrowed meaning

Meet me at the bus stop, Jesus. And if you have anything for me to add to my luggage, make it your own home brew.
I don’t want to consume that ready-made any more, though I’ll keep that fact to myself a little longer.
Just like depression, most people don’t want to know when you’re losing your religion.
Borrowed that story about you for so many years, and it wasn’t even yours. Second hand from some other emperor, maybe a tribal chieftain too.
Mistranslated, double switched meanings (literally!). Not your fault, as usual.

It’s true the more you learn, the less you can admit to knowing.
Then why don’t learned people teach less and less, instead of more and more?
Hoping to tie things up for the next generation, fix a temporary stake, to slow the backsliding they felt in their times of midlife crisis

Dark and light, equinox and blazing glory, peach and good will (now to all genders).
I always knew about the glory.
But no need to light up a tree or ring them bells for that–just look out the window at those chickadees,
And that’s on the darkest day of the year, all in shades of gray,
Tiny beetles under delicately curling bark, pupae asleep in the mud, lilies already pushing up points of green.
All those selfish gene propagation machines can’t hide the glory.

Still, is it to be avians and asteriods only on the tree, felted and embroidered, from now on?
Are we keeping the manger and decorated camels for old time’s sake?
Must have the lights, at the very least–starved for light I am, these days.
And of course, one must have the balls.


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Heart shaped eaves flying, exhausted and brittle,
limbs crack and fall in the long awaited storm.
They talk of losing power.
Ironic, when the power is greater than ever,
lifting, surging, breaking.
No power has been lost, except our own.

Hummingbirds hunker in dense thickets, grasping limbs, tossed and weak with hunger.
No, don’t go, says the mate–you’ll be killed!
Butterflies that venture are slapped back down, stick on rocks, trunks, asphalt.

Down in the bay, though I cannot see, waves run gray green, topped with foam.
You run out and anchor the patio canopy. I catch buckets skidding across the yard.
The children scamper, thrilling with excitement and a little fear, pulling plastic bag kites on strings.



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A Triptych of Dreams

When I dream about bears
and living in a house with broken locks
It means I am afraid

But when the flood dream comes,
in which my basement fills with water lit green
so I have my own private swimming pool
I am happy

As for the dream about an earthquake,
It depends on whether I can get to a helicopter
in time



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