The Kiss
BY KURT BROWN
That kiss I failed to give you.
How can you forgive me?
The kiss I would have spent on you is still
There, within me. It will probably die there.
But it will be the last of me to die.
The Kiss
BY KURT BROWN
That kiss I failed to give you.
How can you forgive me?
The kiss I would have spent on you is still
There, within me. It will probably die there.
But it will be the last of me to die.
It’s a lucky day for me
if they are burning on the hill
the cut and fallen branches.
Fire consumes wood, smoke
consumes air. Lucky day
to see what burns and smokes
inside me. If I sit at the window
long enough, I know the moon
will come back. Is that enough then?
I don’t mean is the moon enough,
but is the waiting for...
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By Ishmael Reed
When he does his taxes,
He finds charges for things
He didn’t sign up for.
No chance to read about penalties and
Interest rates.
He didn’t sign up for life’s contract.
Would he initial
“I agree” after reading life’s
Terms?
Promising him a chance to
Stroll, sprint, and trot on a star. Flowers, honey, an unlimited chance to walk in...
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sick day
burning with fever
burning with lust
sweat drips
sizzling on molten sheets
ghost spiders crawl corridors of wet skin
raising gooseflesh and memories of rusty lips
dragged to the cul-de-sac where desire
waits for the next bus to oblivion
i squirm to find a cool spot on this...
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Diaspora Sonnet Traveling Between Apartment Rentals
By Oliver de la Paz
What made the grammar of our early years,
moving from place to place, house to flimsy
house, was the meaning made between us, here
and there, and wherever or whenever
we moved. The windows chafed. Father pushed boards
with his palm to make the concavity
recede into dust. The blight in the siding
spoke...
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this time I count the hands, the feet,
the tongues, the tunics, the pebbles
the heads, the beardsthe skullcaps, the veils, the scarves,
I do not count the vertigos
the ablutions the miraclest
he whiplashes
in the loudspeakers
the dozens of spat-out words, such a big fire...
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Moving away is only to the boundaries
of the self. Better to stay here.
I said, leaving the horizons
clear. The best journey to make
is inward. It is the interior
that calls. Eliot heart it.
Wordsworth turned from the great hills
of the north to the precipice
of his own mind, and let himself
down for the poetry stranded
on the bare ledges.
For...
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