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Literature Text
California returns
painting
panting
portraits of love
etched in endless steps
and slanted streets
stretching sunburnt limbs
its languid strides
like solemn hymns
collapsed breathless
in the grass
'round
Grace Cathedral
it finds hope
secondhand
(but still potent)
its thrift shop moments
making
better use
of battered truths
than those intended
it makes belief
not makes believe
that nothing's ended
painting
panting
portraits of love
etched in endless steps
and slanted streets
stretching sunburnt limbs
its languid strides
like solemn hymns
collapsed breathless
in the grass
'round
Grace Cathedral
it finds hope
secondhand
(but still potent)
its thrift shop moments
making
better use
of battered truths
than those intended
it makes belief
not makes believe
that nothing's ended
Literature
River Dream
Where I exist, the seasons linger or
die too soon.
I cannot see the subtle changes, or
hear the cadence of their wings.
I feel the shift and taste the residue
between our lips,
and on the air where it also lingers.
His passing will bring the rain but
I covet him more, suspended as we are
between the seasons.
And when dusk is touched by the brows
of moths, he will fade away,
a harbinger of autumn's end before it
begins, while I drift a river dream
over which a new moon ascends.
An oar dips silently and I shiver.
Literature
Air Sex
You saw a gray mouse today
in the form of a girl
pickin' her way, skittering through
the trail of alley apples.
On her mannequin’s body
wracked by a smoker's cough,
wrappings of newspaper headlines
held fast with twine.
Ticker tape judders from
the fortune cookie
between her thighs,
but don't stare too long
cause you might see the
ink blot of two profiles.
That is,
if she still gets her periods.
And if she holds still
long enough, her eyes will
show you the mania. But she's
studying you right back.
And the scab-engers of her arms
are more chaos than you can handle,
so don’t be square just standin' there
playin' air sex...
WH
Literature
march.
i knew march.
birds chirped
beneath
my hands,
their bones
snapped
like ashen twigs.
i remained bare,
purpose not suffered
by adornments.
may was the missing
piece, his face
purple, touched
too hard by the angels.
i did not understand.
but i knew march
and it was enough.
be my silence; my sanctuary,
she sang.
but i could not be brave.
my arms did not reach god.
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nice to see this one again. when i read your work i'm simultaneously inspired and frozen. i haven't written in years and coming back to see your work in my notifications was a beautiful surprise.