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Vote for the best PAIR of poems.


grove.

rhythm prism.
a Juilliard ambition.
raising her fists
to a fire
she put in remission.
ballet is intuition.
so keen
to keep position
on my listen.
a candle lights
my Mona Lisa;
she glistens of
mystery
and mere wishes.

"I want to dance for you...
without music.
I'd just love to be your
music baby; only this time, though."

i stand holding an
umbrella in a breeze-way.
she's fading my
intelligence to
wilderness; the child plays.
i stayed until the
morning star
took the candle light away,
and fell into a puddle of
my soul as
she danced for more rain.


Providing the Providers for the Providees

In an affiliation with annihilation
I soak the gunshot scribe
with an ocean or two in my left hand
drowning my southpaw trigger finger
like breathing apparatus bought with bribes.

Dollar bills that can do much more damage
than inflict paper cuts upon bathing
in their glorious dissimulation.

And the mirror image
within the sodden, green palm of your hand
testing the fabric imbricating your eyes:

“Happiness | tsugsiD”

Happiness for the fact that you are not in place
of those losing their lives today,
or tomorrow for that matter,
unless you have a date with a money-hungry knife.

Disgust for the fact that you’ve become a Grim Reaper for hire,
which luckily enough for you is legal
since one-hundred-forty-second degree murder
hasn’t become a crime yet.

And at least it’s wool impairing your vision
so it’s thick enough to get you through
the most cold-hearted of nights.

But you just wait for the day
when blood can soak through that many hands.



Jack was cut in two next door

Me and you are in a corner,
a presence of childhood like two vultures
and half the shadow. Because
it’s never good to have too many friends.
But you’ve always been the fool,
but who must I blame when Father comes after you?

On your death bed Jude, as you called her,
would sing a lament to the heavens;
your lip’s backward to the turntable;
your eye beneath the mirror.

You don’t have the nerve;
no roots attached to your half-wooden skeleton.
No end to your Siamese twitch on overalls sheet.
A wounded arm hangs from the heart and swings
by your side, but deprives you of joy.
But you gotta remember, this ain’t folklore boy!


Mirages

he lights a cigarette and in the match's flame
he comes across
the images of those faces in his mind
transitory female beauty
seen only once.
flicks

loved for just a glimpse.
draws

imprinted in the mind
inhaled

But soon to be forgotten
deceased