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st mary's th th th
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i was the sometimes boy on a leash my sliver of assent in as if it were my decision
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the pool shark lurked but not to fear the end unknowable blue inmost and cold like the comfort of a diplomatic war
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wired within perhaps ignoble i'm still glad when one spits on his own: they're bad
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he put the word back into her a heavy kind of music
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go out early in the morning no shoes no hats no ties and quick as a toad's tongue can reach love wounded the hearts of the mad and the wise
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around a drain an old appointment they keep with an inescapable place this argument no way claude says to be any less afraid
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it's almost may and yesterday i saw a firefly
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you don't see them a lot in the city
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it's almost may and yesterday i caught a firefly in my hand
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first firefly i seen in a long long time
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make a wish miss edna said make a good one
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how far the world you knew amp tall amp filled finally with strangers
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then his voice gets real low and he says and when it's january and all cold like this feels like june's a long long ways away
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i guess them arguing on a tuesday in january's an occasion so i guess this is an occasional poem
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i still got his hat it's light blue with con edison in white letters
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the kitchen sink just overflowed a flash flood washed away the school i threw your blanket in the trash
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from columbus my father said you could go just about anywhere
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it whirs as my mother whips it through the air and down against my brother's legs
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a poem in three parts a riot is the language of the unheard martin luther king jr
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for ev'n when death dissolves our humane frame the soul returns to heav'n from whence it came earth keeps the body verse preserves the fame
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and this moment as it happens our echoing hush as we try to hold the close music of the blackbird in the bush
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were needed to recapture that first exposure says the voice-over: as though ansel adams were a pioneer toiling after the spirit not just the body of america
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is ansel adams and ansel adams the filter light renders each tree a bouquet of paper the great depression gathers like so much weather
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oh ye patrons of greyfriar's inn i would exclaim i am here to meet your high-waisted jane to embrace her as my comrade as my brother-in-arms
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the instruments set down the stage lights dimmed thank you very much goodnight graceland
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disease took hold with sudden force we thought that we could hush the moans so skinned and burned the flagging horse and let the fire consume its bones
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my children's skin turned cold and flushed acquainted as i was with death i saw their end and held their trust so cut their throats and sucked their breath
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and bundled out helplessly from sunlight the usual day and all particulars of life there fled except the sense that stays with me for hours and hours that i was valuable and needed there
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we'd bindle paradise and stow it where the dust bunnies futz given leave swindle us please some less dear salvation
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canvas banners thrashing in the storm chinese lanterns chase across the speckled dusk like molten bloodhounds packed against the moon
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my dad said could be doing with a suck on a spliff
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down into the pines down into the flames down into the rave
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when i walk away i'll leave behind a trail of lamp-bright rind
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we drink too much pineapple rum straight from the bottle bitch about the red-haired girl the fetish model a preacher's daughter with a thing for unreasonable shoes
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from her faded patchwork quilt bleeding hearts we watched her mutate into a pvc alice liddell how did she manage in seven-inch patent heels
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my mother's hair which spans the length is long washed and uncut
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in the field shepherd's purse to be seen even in the dark
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more than that i remember the flat-seed pouch weed some call it as if to flourish and seed in the poorest soil is to be just that
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look a man walks into a field a field with shepherd's purse
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i was the good thief i held my love's sweet breath his beautiful intelligent gaze
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every girl will ask you to dance and the boys won't kill you for it shake your head
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in the temper and the tantrum in the well-kept arboretum i am waiting like an animal for poetry
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isn't that what they say that and that historical events exchange glances with nothingness
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i am not writing a book about shopping which is a woman shopping i am not writing accounts of dreams not my own or anyone else's i am not writing historical re-enactments of any durational literature
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i am not writing a history of these times or of past times or of any future times and not even the history of these visions which are with me all day and all of the night
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saying goodbye to a ghost is a hoax the birds are still in flight unhook the birds
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the erratic footprints of birds upon the sand or lacerations no limbs at our disposal only the desire of limbs to reflesh the ghost gestures
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i a cave with arms at the mouth our hero is blind: everything he hears he sees
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ii william's cabbage heart shook he dragged himself from the dirt
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iii as if there is a fig tree rooted in heaven amp each of its leaves knows all the rules
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i want to chant a bliss mantra prajnaparamita can you hear me
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remember the pears they were so green and the avocados like guitars honey-golden and the asparagus like a lion's rainy mane and
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a little closer to the chalk dust this child swinging her left arm a ribbon agitated by unnamed forces devoured
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recipe smear each side of a pork chop with mustard and dredge in flour
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the ocean foamy waves wash to shore treasures as a sacrifice to damp sand
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real life i could have screamed the day john proposed winterizing the cottage and living there permanently
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something to think about perhaps in our mad scramble to keep our heads above water we miss the point
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human nature why must we be so intent on destroying everything we touch
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death is a funny thing most people are afraid of it and yet they don't even know what it is
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death is many different things to many different people i think it is safe to say however that most people don't like it
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i think it's always nice to know that you are not alone even in death
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another comforting thought about death is that years or so after you die nobody who knew you will still be alive to miss you
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did you know that the first poems john ashbery ever had published were published in poetry magazine under the name of joel symington
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did you know that harry mathews started out to be a com poser he studied at the juilliard school of music
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peter schjeldahl's father is very famous in the plastic area he discovered the new lightweight plastic used in bufferin bottles soon he hopes to open a contraceptive factory in red china
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when i lived in boston i used to panhandle on the street where all of the art galleries were and i got my cigarette butts from the urns in front of the museum of fine arts
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in which as the situation changes you catch glimpses of yourself a series of emoticons
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what we said we found that night by these and no other means
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it deepens it begins the cyclical method
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believing her i swallowed suds thinking they'd work from the inside out
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i see the alley house at night dark i'm trying to be pure again but i want all the tones when you're dead you can have them
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his handkerchief a pin or coin he'd touched a button from his shirt a feather caught on his coattail such tokens would fetch a price
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blood of a witch can you believe such a thing i think you may be worldly after all
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better to leave at once i met with him at dawn we headed east
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to have but heard a crowd of russet-coats imploring us to such alms-deeds such tender ministries
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suppose you sit once more why yes there if you like where you can see my herb garden
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i planted it the year dear alice passed: in summer you will wake and drowse to delicate perfumes
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and yet when it came (after much wrestling not to begrudge our toil) the fall was swift
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i am tired of people combing their hair and dripping in gold
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on the sands of time how to embrace introspection's anchor like a long-lost brother
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it was my whole soul transported and all its certainties that i existed beneath all the legends otherwise as joy
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i give a piece quite near away then another one and two to three and say good-bye with some dismay
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i hold the script of the gone by matinee before i ever found a scar a yawn a he past the years i've spun to macrame
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soon i must go and she will stay dwelling under the apple tree never to wander blind in first foray
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don't have that one word this fire all there is
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i find it you have to find it it isn't love it's what
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when i spoke the words i am gay i had let them fester like blood on a prison cell wall i hadn't known that they would free themselves
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i kissed the darkness three times because it stole those three merciless words from me before my mother could
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of sudden motion in the mostly still new dawn and drawn i rose to see the flight our dark companions exiting the night
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for betre it is thei seiden alle that it of hire so befalle than if thei scholden alle spille
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and thus in hope and good believe of that the corps schal wel aryve thei caste it over bord als blyve
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i will stay until the bones are picked clean i will stay until the wide wings swallow the last of the light until the white bird is free at last
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ashglory behind your shaken-knotted hands at the threeway
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no one bears witness for the witness
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in seed sense the sea stars you out innermost forever
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both feet flat the game is done they think i lost i think i won
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for me a woman's tears are ikea instructions on the european side
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who knew better the anger of young jocasta knew that when the oracle or the police come they are taking someone with them
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i'm sure laius looked at the crib and thought better you than me kid
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