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Literature Text
Undulating the roll of our
r's. The fluttering of the
tongue like flies over
the water, stilled
with evaporation.
Upon deliverance
into the mouth of this world,
we should have been
informed of missing teeth.
Like all good Americans,
we pledge allegiance
and follow faithfully the
breadcrumbs leading
into the dentist's office.
The only worthy man
left
is the one who dares
to learn his own language.
But as it is,
we are vehicles
of controlled
movement. An excess of
speed, and the words will run
over each other like roadkill.
Too slow, and the meaning
ceases to exist at all.
r's. The fluttering of the
tongue like flies over
the water, stilled
with evaporation.
Upon deliverance
into the mouth of this world,
we should have been
informed of missing teeth.
Like all good Americans,
we pledge allegiance
and follow faithfully the
breadcrumbs leading
into the dentist's office.
The only worthy man
left
is the one who dares
to learn his own language.
But as it is,
we are vehicles
of controlled
movement. An excess of
speed, and the words will run
over each other like roadkill.
Too slow, and the meaning
ceases to exist at all.
Literature
Loss
It is more than death: a loved one
vanishes into a gathering of ashes,
and still they are not immortalized
by that lump in the throat, that sense
of wrong, that homesickness, that love-
sickness--the unnameable, named. Baudelaire,
I am an unhealthy man now--
this is past forgetting, past frailty.
Age has whitened the crass lines
of my hair; apathy has sewn through
my thinning lips, has stilled each finger
from touching keys, or ink to paper.
Although I've shown the eye of each grape,
how they watch from a neighbor's unkept yard--
I care no longer about the sweetness
of their juice, or the miracle of finding
sense and hope in l
Literature
Subduction
We drip into October
with the silence of spiders
heavy in our chests,
our hearts curling in
on themselves like
leaves in autumn.
Lungs unfurl into the
stillness;
there is a breath, a whisper--
This dying wind whistles
through empty throats,
as if to murmur a warning,
perhaps, that we threaten
to become
earthquakes
along our hipbones.
Literature
the living is easy
a tin man, white sheep rolled in dust
wears a grin, swisher sweets clinging
to his lip. he swirls seagrams 7 in a cracked
lowball, painting the side of my grandmother's
house with one eye closed & the other
laughing. he cannot speak the language
so i stare at him instead, his penny
loafers, his peeling skin, his snowy hair.
so i stare at his photograph on
the fireplace, wondering how anyone
who loved my great grandmother so well
could have died before i was born.
Suggested Collections
"A" was originally "The" in the title but lovely dA restrictions applied. Idk. I kind of like it this way too.
this one started off, at least, as a tribute.
-
NaPo #30
So ends another April! This year was trying and at parts I didn't think I'd make it, but at last I know that I can attend risd and make naPo at the same time- take that, art school!
Thank you all for reading.
this one started off, at least, as a tribute.
-
NaPo #30
So ends another April! This year was trying and at parts I didn't think I'd make it, but at last I know that I can attend risd and make naPo at the same time- take that, art school!
Thank you all for reading.
© 2009 - 2024 mySeity
Comments8
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It's true, no one really stops to pay attention to what they're saying. It's sad, there's millennia of history behind our language, yet no one really cares - it's all about the here and now. Which I guess in a Zen kind of way is a good thing, but still, they're missing out on interesting stuff!