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Literature Text
credited to better weather,
preferring central to dis-ingenuity,
safe.
skipping stones,
stars and letterheads,
told you why this .png is here,
saved. cataloged. organized in
triplicate.
not a summer.
she is steady,
windless breeze.
weather, hold me
and release.
menial minors and saturday sinners,
+new folder
+sub-u
+sub-me
+eternity-in-glass
unexpected character in the inbox,
spam, spam spam - spreadable a- an-
litter me with
your heart.
garbage burns
as well
as any rose
preferring central to dis-ingenuity,
safe.
skipping stones,
stars and letterheads,
told you why this .png is here,
saved. cataloged. organized in
triplicate.
not a summer.
she is steady,
windless breeze.
weather, hold me
and release.
menial minors and saturday sinners,
+new folder
+sub-u
+sub-me
+eternity-in-glass
unexpected character in the inbox,
spam, spam spam - spreadable a- an-
litter me with
your heart.
garbage burns
as well
as any rose
Literature
l'amour a distance
we love like vagrants,
ours a truck stop romance,
ours all the vagaries of
runaway time:
us a roadside motel,
us a highway map,
us a crumpled collection
of interstate lines.
ours a vagabondish worship
of the distances we drive.
and all the violence of longing,
is that yours or is it mine?
and the vacancies in my body,
are they yours
or are they mine?
Literature
Right
Here's the bad news:
tomorrow
there will be a bird
on your doorstep.
Dead or dying, you think
it has something to do
with me. It does not.
There's the crux
you always think
the bird should rise up
and proclaim its killer,
its savior, should point out
which cat only watched and which
opened its mouth; which cat
is not a cat but a storm
or a window or another bird
and to be honest,
I would like these things too.
But it owes us only its death,
incapable of shaming
our compulsive involvement,
our need to make the bird
about ourselves.
You want to be jury
in an empty room. You want
to hold court
for every little thing
that makes you feel.
Literature
dumb.
i heard it first when i was four. the sentence—death sentence—what set me
to shaping silence in my space to prove you wrong, when you asked:
"don't you know how dumb you sound?"
even now i carry the muscle memory. my teeth touched, my lips bit,
my mouth shut. inside me i kept myself, sitting shivah while the gibberish got clogged up
where teachers and toothpicks dared not tread. because of course i hadn't known,
and of course i would learn nothing, come monday morning
with me all full of weekend words, the problem
just kept getting worse. you all laughed then—as you would laugh now
—and the cycle began again.
for
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Screaming goats? XD