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 Feb 28 Crow
Clay Micallef
When the street lights
have gone out
and most people are asleep
all wrapped up tight in their
delicate dreaming
a fallen angel brings me
fragile and broken words
aren’t they beautiful
she whispers
don’t show them
to anyone
if you do they will see
who you really are
they will know
every little secret
that you keep hidden
in your perfect silence
they will know that
you’re one of the kind ones
the wolves will know
your weakness …
Clay.M
 Feb 28 Crow
Raven Star
Alive?
 Feb 28 Crow
Raven Star
I exist.

But i need to do things
I don't really like,
And i dream
Of a different life.

So, am i truly alive?
Meaning of life?
 Feb 28 Crow
Imarie
Trust
 Feb 28 Crow
Imarie
No longer fooled by sweet disguise,
She shields her soul from judging eyes.
For trust, once given, now denied,
Leaves only emptiness inside.
 Feb 28 Crow
Clay Micallef
When a black sheet has been
thrown over the moon
and a million lazy stars
have fallen from view
I hear the wind has
grown tired of traveling
I hear the sound of mandolins
crying in the mountains
I hear the rattle of
gypsy wheels
I hear the heavy hearts
of horses upon the
restless roads of
broken poetry ...
Clay.M
 Feb 28 Crow
inverted soul
dude
 Feb 28 Crow
inverted soul
Dude, do you realize that you used the word dude
like three times in the same sentence, dude.

who does that?
 Feb 28 Crow
jim moore
You saw it coming,
you knew it
I had my chance,
I blew it
You held my hand
We walked to the edge

I couldn’t jump
A missed opportunity that I wish I had the chance to do over.
True religion
begins in the heart

The heart is the ruling power of manhood

You can enlighten the
understanding of man

But if his heart is wrong
the understanding only enables him to sin with a greater disregard for the responsibility resting upon him .
From where the mountains kiss the blue
I drop a note
I love you.

The faded pink of her lips
blends with the radiant gold
the sun pours into the air.

My mind wispy light in joy
flies over the top
before melting in silence.

No words count here
in the quiet submission.
 Feb 22 Crow
Rick
it usually leaps like a swordfish out of the ocean
and I’m able to harpoon it,
but as of lately,
I’m stuck with pond ****
and the tuna on my bad breath.

it’s nowhere to be found;
not in the parks,
the libraries,
the liquor stores
nor the circuit clerk’s office,

I tried fishing it out of the swaps of
spitfire and melancholy
but found nothing

I tried to ****** it with an excessive
amount of trouble and *******
but found nothing

I tried scooping the guts out of myself
like a hollowed out pumpkin and
splattered it with a wet slap
against an old newspaper
but found nothing

there’s nothing here;
no spark,
no imagination,
no ingenuity

what I’m I suppose to do?

as I sit here petting the black
velvet fur of my dog,
my toes won’t stop curling,
my nails are bitten down to the nub
and the stink of aging soars past
like eagles on fire

I have nothing to write about:
no unpopular opinion
no peculiar viewpoint
no bludgeoning over
the banality of
extinction

the only logical thing to do is
head out to see some local
band at a Chicago bar and see
where the alcohol takes me

I need the ammunition
I need the fuel
I need to make
something happen

the hard days of labor have diminished me
through attrition and lack of euphemism
but for right now, no matter how
saturated I am of feeling and thought…

whether I’m
drunk on sleep,
salacious on vulgarity,
grieving with quills,
vacant of *****,
dreaming of gout,
reading Géza Csáth,
listening to Sass Dragons,
burrowing under empty houses
or fixing the plumbing for the woman down the hall.

I still
can’t
coax
the word
out.
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