The job was easy. No cutting line, no wading swamp
water with moccasins and alligators. Suburban work.
Boca Raton, mouth of the rat, more rich people than
most places, though how many more was, was
something I didn’t know. This neighborhood was not all
millionaires, but well off, complicated pension plans. We
had no assets. Long haired county surveyors. We were
tanned, in decent shape, young. We wore yellow safety
vests, jeans, no shirts. These suburban folks were wary
of us, but the logo on the truck gave us license to be
there and made us seem a bit less dangerous. We liked
to fuck with people now and then, so as we painted
targets, a grid for aerial photos, and they’d ask what we
were doing, I said the county decided this neighborhood
was getting overcrowded, so they’re going to eliminate
one household adjoining each of these circles.…
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The accomplished feat echoes in a maze of hysteria.
The stratosphere vast continuing dissonance for that attainable.
A gypsy dances the midnight hour and writes until his fingers cry crimson.
Dramatic realpolitik operas and spiritual indelibility; partnered atrophy and
God.
Lay tongue to contemporary whoa man’s dispute with universal concurrence.
Doors of perception magnify relevance; our lives as spiritual beings closes near.
The crimson covers the paper and trickles down the side of his arm in lengthy vibration.
Sound is formed, a thick gelatinous blob of atmospheric time travel.
A palate of absurdity met in recycled light.
Drips from washed-out tunnels of dharma subconscious in streaks of nostalgia.
The gypsy furls his legs in rainbow knots.
The lotus hums.
We are re-entering the universe, a path in which holiness engraves ritual.…
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What grace given as redemption
can this grace be now? she wonders,
walking past his corner again
in the glassy white glare of 6 o’clock,
seeing what little is left
of what he gave his life to.
This was a man who worked the same job
for twenty-seven years, fixing machines
made by other men, machines meant to break
from wear, from neglect, from war.
A man who worked in a concrete box
on the corner of Patterson and Main
in a soiled, quarter-sleeved jumpsuit,
washing away the work each night
back home – chassis grease, used gear oil,
human sweat.
He was a man who lived in ways people
couldn’t see, a “good” man, the neighbors said,
who only charged what he thought his work
was worth.…
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People claim to have been crushed by love.
I doubt it.
Alien compression most likely, pressed for time,
squeezed into a photo booth or lost
in the grip of gravity. I often contemplate
what 3 Gs might do to an unwary spine.
But I won’t take the fall, there’s still spring in my step.
Once on a field trip I gazed out the window
of a trans-galactic express and immense objects
appeared out of nowhere, threatening to demolish the ship.
I rubbed my lucky wart and secured safe passage
for saint and sinner alike. Go ahead
roll your eyes or roll the dice. Matters not.
When it’s your time to go well there you go.
Keep your eyes wide open amigos
you can be crushed by nearly everything.…
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Sometimes I wonder if everyone doesn’t need someone to miss
A peg where they can hang that heartache hat
And its miles of clouds
Its volume of sleepless sadness.
You are the doorway through which my mourning passes.
We could not house happiness
But you remain safely in my heart
Winnowing the sadness.
– Jenny McBride…
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Thursday started with a gauzy sand bar sky
The LED sun yawning widely over the horizon
Today, like every work day, the ideas blackboard
Streaked with years of smudgy lessons, the surviving
Word “catch” or was it “batch” down in the corner,
Avoiding erasure. No products appeal,
Or really matter, maybe you can market
But you can’t pawn the sunrise
Which easily eclipses the mind when it’s wrapped in a
Tortilla, so chewy, like yesterday‘s disappeared stanzas.
Aspiring light has no goals, just a paper route,
Delivering holograms of unconfined content,
Another daily batch, today’s fresh catch.
Checked blue surface of a gauzy sand bar sky.
– Michel Krug
…
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Therefore, I am
Prostrate before the moon and the sun
And the rain that followed, once again
The moon, the sun, and the rain that followed,
Once again
And forever more, I fear
For the flame that burnt my hands and eyes,
Charred the snow-hearted and scalded their brothers
Lay covered in earth, in ash, in suffocating pitch
Starved of fuel more potent than a prone body, prostrate before the moon
And the sun
And the rain that followed, once again
As I watch it fall, from clouds of nothing
– Izzy Fishbach
Author’s Note: Philosophers of all persuasions have spilled much ink debating whether it is possible to know that one exists, and if so, how to prove it. This poem is the opposite of that: it suggests that we don’t exist at all.…
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