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Who Will Miss Me

Who will miss me
anyway?
The Autumn’s imperative
signals the
long division of my
mind.

Under the geography of
Love is a fear that
nothing

Matters.

Longhaired dreams are
features of the young.

It's the Emblem of the
70's.  The crusts of the
untried. No matter
tears on the rheum.

Why wait for love?

There is a
whisper
in the

afternoon.

Only the sad
know

Literature.


Caroline Shank
August 31, 2024
The magic is in the jewels,
or in the swing of the
pendulums, the ubiquitous
kneading, itch

that pushes me..

No.
I stop.  I transfer my
packages, the balance
of the task I have

is

to love you on the wind,
to salvo a minute
the sound

neither bang nor whimper.

The lick of the tick of
the groin tingling
anticipation.

You are Beautiful in your
distance where I cannot

dance.

Moonlight light the place
wear we should

Believe

The Word.



Caroline Shank
08.26.2024
It's a quarter after six, on an August
evening of my 76th year.   I drink
a sherry.   Here,  my feet
are free of the socks I insist on
wearing,  I am smoking.

The entertainment
for tonight is planning tomorrow.

Tomorrow is the last mention of
Summer.

You took me into custody, left
my life's belongings behind.
Sans identification,  sans valuables,
sans feeling.

Now there is only the zeitgeist of
this age.   The long lobes of wise men
and the sagging ******* of yesterday.
I write in cursive so you will have
to talk to me.  

I am the last syllable of my family.
The seventies remain as a bastion
of understanding.  Do not blame

me for remembering you.

I have forgotten many things but not the warm Summer night.   It creeps over me like your

hand.


Caroline Shank
8.15.2022
I'm not sure if I posted this before
⁷⁷
Destiny

I want you to be with me,
to lie on beaches thrilling
to those parallels whose
loving has called us to
attention.

Wake is a carnival of
flat sand The sun.
breaks in half .

I feed on the acres of raw
loving, our bones dance
across the catcalls of memory.

They who know not
at all, the long songs,
whose tendrils ofʻsoft
salt spray are fitted

into our destiny.

wait quietly
while we dance

the finished final
notes of our

song.


Caroline Shank
8.23.2024
Godot

The space between love
and tomorrow harbors
the lost, the arbiters
And the waiting.

I am waiting for Godot,
But he is not coming.
Noone is..  This place,
where's dialog plates,
where the audience
sees failure

My heart
beats a
Tattoo, a

small wine glass.
A swallow lefť,

An initial fades.
Love

Rubs off
With the
Cleaning

Cloth


Caroline Shank
8.2.24
Walk the Gulf side
Steals your love and back

The ubitiquos lure of sand dollar,

the caw of the gulls piaint
Statements.

We will make, love.  The vow
is Absolute.

Clouds form a canopy.

Tomorrow's walk will
be another step in
the sea call to us,

love crossed,
We bow

to our loves
own

Destination


Caroline Shank
8.1.2024
I learned early that **** was the form
of choice for ***.  Not that the act was
named or the ****** ugly.  

Where in the world are you all now?
you mealyworms.  How like you to
teach me violence as love and leave
me to learn the lesson so well.

I recline.  **** is the sharing of two
faces.  Your face smells of beer and
your pounding hips ground me.  I
lie.  You are a broken bottle smacked
against a building on a hot summer night.

You are the cigarette before left in the
weeds.  I learned from you to trust
the backseat of cars, to wait for calls
from the garbage man’s son.

Trash man, black car, you hung
on a tree.  All your sperms dangle
in the light of the bowling alley, shine
in the rubber.

Old man, pound on me till you think
I am satisfied.  Old man.  Eat ****.
old man eat ****
old men eat ****, grow bald.
Remember me in the dashlight
I was the fifteen year old rubbed
drunk, sunk under the haze of
horror.  You were the gun.


Wednesday, September 26, 2001


Written over 20 years ago  interesting in light of my evolution
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