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L is for Lengua & Lengua is for Language
for Anna Badkhen
I read somewhere that
there must be a language
for almost everything
German for science
French for politics
Italian for love
English for commerce
I wonder then
what could possibly be
the language of poetry.
The language of poetry doesn’t exist.
The language of poetry is silence.
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She pumps the bike hard at road’s edge-
self-powered, wind-washed, free;
her sleek muscled, sweat oiled arms
melded with tubular steel.
The high September sun is hard
against her, all along the dank canal.
The asphalt ends, turns to gravel,
then dirt; tires sink in the sand.
Long, strong strides bounce a silver chain
against her white throat and when she blinks,
quicksilver flashes, then a sly, dark smile
and brusque words aimed straight
where need lies naked.
Once, she suddenly swung round: her floral-
patterned dress clung tight to her hips.
But come September, watch her walk,
solitary, down that broken pavement, away.
And still I awaken, deep in black hours, watch
her ghostly face turn, fade at last into sleep.
Long disappeared, that dark liquid smile,
and her absence now is an ache in the throat.
She pumps the bike hard at road’s edge.
The high September sun is hard against her
Her sweat oiled arms melded with tubular steel.
At ride’s end – unwound, at rest.
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On the Twenty-fifth Anniversary of John Lennon’s Murder
On a step behind the Holiday Inn,
Two Russians roamed up, bummed a cigarette,
While a third snuck up, struck me from behind.
I sprawled to asphalt. Then the boot came in.
I swung through the red, but it’s a good bet
I didn’t land one. The blackout was kind.
I woke knotted in blood-ruined sheets, startled:
Smashed, stamped, and splintered to a numbed dazzle,
I spat black wads into the fuzzy sink.
One look in the mirror, my brain curdled.
I propped in the shower stall. Steam sizzled.
My hair loosened a sick swirl of sour pink.
They made off, grinning, with all I had: two
Dollars, five cigarettes, and my Zippo.
Corned Beef Hash and Two Eggs Over Easy, Coffee
I’m battered all to hell. You should see me.
I’m in the corner of a bright diner,
The very one from Suzanne Vega’s song.
Every time I limp to the john to pee
The whole crowd stares at my glaring shiner.
My whole face: swollen eggplant. Before long
I will try to remember what happened.
Memory is just a haunting of ghosts,
And the night is crushed below like eggshell.
In the ER the doctors pretended
I would be fine, and they were quite good hosts.
They stapled my head back together well.
I am sinking on a soft black balloon,
Dreaming of the break. It is coming soon.
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9. |
KP Brown - Don Cornelius
03:38
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Apiary Magazine Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Written By Humans
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