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Literature Text
One: Untitled
A logic of patterns
align at once.
Two: Robiel
He's sharing at once his most intimate self,
then looks at me to do the same,
uncomprehending of the shallow depths
he cannot pierce with light,
but would only soak him to his ankles
if he stepped inside.
Three: To Narcissistic Idealists
I was underexposed to music
and cannot translate into a rhythmic language
that which I speak. So my words may be harsher,
more honest, the stuff that most can't take—
I like to think we'll be forgotten spectacularly.
Four: always in may—
meadow lark of the late spring
whistles to me in His tune:
an aubade, crisp and longing,
renders me awestruck,
wanting what I left in Ourself.
Five: Mami's Poem
"how deep is our disgust for women
that imbedded in the two languages we speak,
our nouns to describe her are softer,
less powerful on the tongue."
A logic of patterns
align at once.
Two: Robiel
He's sharing at once his most intimate self,
then looks at me to do the same,
uncomprehending of the shallow depths
he cannot pierce with light,
but would only soak him to his ankles
if he stepped inside.
Three: To Narcissistic Idealists
I was underexposed to music
and cannot translate into a rhythmic language
that which I speak. So my words may be harsher,
more honest, the stuff that most can't take—
I like to think we'll be forgotten spectacularly.
Four: always in may—
meadow lark of the late spring
whistles to me in His tune:
an aubade, crisp and longing,
renders me awestruck,
wanting what I left in Ourself.
Five: Mami's Poem
"how deep is our disgust for women
that imbedded in the two languages we speak,
our nouns to describe her are softer,
less powerful on the tongue."
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Literature
Of All the Places in the Universe
She was a button girl. Thirteen and already too old to be beautiful with grimy cheekbones accented by listless, golden-gray hair. She spent her time trying to sell her collection, dozens of buttons lined neatly in a haggard box. The large one with tiny flowers etched into them, a plain navy one, and the bright pink button were her favorites. They were the ones she hoped would find a home in some little girl's cherished dress or a mother's apron.
With her coat straining around her, eyes crowded with years of cold and unease, she held out her box to a passerby. Buttons flashed in the muted light, but the man scoffed as he continued past her. S
Literature
from here to christian apology
in the end i break my teeth on the cyanide almond.
the capacity for evil is trivial and irreducible.
it is a rock in the bloodstream,
it tumbles in the purifier and never gets out.
no you can't wash this out. you can scrub & scratch yourself
into a corner through little transgressions.
they say loitering on the edge heightens one's senses
to things like pastel bricks of scarfwork
& liquor store workers who remember your name.
they say hanging up on scam calls will
cost you an earthquake. is this an earthquake?
what little love there is
slinks gently like a beanstalk
wilting on the steel fen
Literature
On The Threshold of Creation
Daughter of Hecate,
I was born upon the threshold
of one year and the next:
a tiny earthen creature,
awash in a sea of stars.
Too late did I remember
Capricorn is the goat with
the tail of a fish,
and perhaps my legs were never meant
to tread upon the earth.
I've heard tell
that Saturn is the harshest master,
and will never be satisfied
by words alone.
In the beginning I was sure-footed
as the goat who glitters in stars above me,
ideas sprung full-grown from my head,
as Athena born from Zeus
Too late do I recall
that prophecy foretold,
Zeus' own creation
would surpass even him.
I'm still trying to puzzle out
whether my own creation
will
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Comments14
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This has been in my inbox forever and damn. #2, #4 and "I like to think we'll be forgotten spectacularly."