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Literature Text
in the grand scheme of things, we are insignificant.
we will not move worlds with our love;
we will not shift boulders or shatter mountains or create vistas.
we will not drain oceans or birth giants
or solve the land-locked islands' fear
we will not break monsters (nor create them)
we will not smooth sandscapes or fly cloudless into the shot-through-pastel morning sky.
we will not build towers as far as the eye can see,
endless and worthless and beautiful as the sun.
we will not learn the meaning of the the universe
or particle physics
or breakfast.
at least, we will not do these things for anyone but
each other.
we will not move worlds with our love;
we will not shift boulders or shatter mountains or create vistas.
we will not drain oceans or birth giants
or solve the land-locked islands' fear
we will not break monsters (nor create them)
we will not smooth sandscapes or fly cloudless into the shot-through-pastel morning sky.
we will not build towers as far as the eye can see,
endless and worthless and beautiful as the sun.
we will not learn the meaning of the the universe
or particle physics
or breakfast.
at least, we will not do these things for anyone but
each other.
Literature
stranger
you came clinging to the grace of a summer storm's
underbreath, came cold hands and tired eyes
and a bruised lip i'd longed to kiss
when you stumbled on night listing
too far to the left
cross my thistledown garden by old dusks
that wilt between, i'll keep my door open:
your lady in sepia doesn't live here, only
the ghosts and i -- and Grandmother,
in the far-between wanders when she can
remember --
but i've a place where you can
lay your wayworn bones to dry, and
if morning should come calling, i'll not
tell her where you sleep. and stayed awhile.
Literature
grains of sand could never make it whole again
i.
flashback to the day your record player died,
a stranger stole your heart & it rained for a week straight.
remember how cold it was at the bus stop, how the ice streaked the sidewalk silver
& songbird's cries for spring fell like roadkill on the pavement.
iii.
fast forward to tomorrow and it's all a little better, the sun comes out
& there's fresh dew on the lawn,
when your boss cares more about covering up the bruise on her neck
than anything you could possibly do to fuck up.
ii.
today it's partly cloudy, the world still damp with memories and for now
you're forced to wake up to the radio alone,
even though vinyl still lines
Literature
The Flamingo Poem
I was twelve when she was ten.
Our neighborhood had neither curb nor pavement;
every strip of grass was our sidewalk.
Trees doubled as bike stands,
and pine cones as hair brushes.
Chain-linked fences were suggestions to work around,
and trellises for wild honeysuckle vines.
Backyards spontaneously erupted into blackberry patches
leading to hunting expeditions ending with empty buckets
but purple chins and fingertips.
A muddy hundred yards of concrete culvert
delivered us to our hidden place
where fairies and fireflies
were equally real and equally magical.
Mason jars once filled with tadpoles hold rainwater sun tea,
the hostage
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little grains of sand look like planets close up.
I AM SO DEEP.
but seriously, though.
~JuliJ90809 broke my (petit) writer's block with a postcard.
thank you, lovely.
comments are appreciated! :>
I AM SO DEEP.
but seriously, though.
~JuliJ90809 broke my (petit) writer's block with a postcard.
thank you, lovely.
comments are appreciated! :>
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