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Literature Text
I wonder if it will get easier,
a thingless life.
Body of one,
room for none.
For sale, cheap:
A PlayStation 2, used.
An ambition, abused.
Four walls, beaten.
One lamb shank.
...no, that's eaten.
Ninety-seven DVDs, watched.
Three novels, botched.
One brain, worn.
One heart, torn.
& other things, call for details.
Everything must go.
Like that girl in her waist coat
who called herself my wife.
Like that man in his leather jacket
who told me how to live my life.
a thingless life.
Body of one,
room for none.
For sale, cheap:
A PlayStation 2, used.
An ambition, abused.
Four walls, beaten.
One lamb shank.
...no, that's eaten.
Ninety-seven DVDs, watched.
Three novels, botched.
One brain, worn.
One heart, torn.
& other things, call for details.
Everything must go.
Like that girl in her waist coat
who called herself my wife.
Like that man in his leather jacket
who told me how to live my life.
Literature
Scratches
we're dancing in that narrow expanse where the only sound
is the contraction of a writhing unwilling heart;
we're finding our way back to the surface through
layers like paper ceilings and puppet strings
and we're tied out by our own shortcomings- snaked
like a noose, fangs nip at our heels and
we've lost control, and we've lost direction
and we've lost ourselves in the people that mean
nothing. we curl up like a tapeworm deep inside
esophagus' and promise we'll never leave
(oh please promise me you'll share my heart
when the anemic night comes)
leaden feet and feather eyes, I can't see what
you mean but I found an answer betw
Literature
Open Parenthesis
(A very old young man
has no apologies, but, perhaps,
many regrets, contained (rarely
visits his mother) in parenthetical
(did not keep up the gymnastics
regimen) asides (tossed the keys
to his buddy and let him wreck
his ’78 Duster and his knee).
The brackets of his shoulders
hold all the asides that forge
a life – the periodic funerals
and silent ellipses following
him across the map and down,
here, to me, waiting with an open
parenthesis.
Literature
Closed Parenthesis
A very old young man
told me I belong in Pittsburgh,
where it rains 200 days
of the year and all the people
have blue eyes. City bustle
would overwhelm my Southern
sensibilities, but, perhaps,
I could use a parenthetical
of my own, a brief aside
in a longer life where lazy
dashes become machine gun
exclamation points.
And when I hit Return,
the tangent ends, folded
between those shoulders
in a closed parenthesis.)
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Comments23
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Well done!