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  Sep 7 Moo
Left Foot Poet
I've been aware
for many a year,
but cut off by him,
for crimes he accuses
for crimes undisclosed,
his silence is wider than
the great oceans,
with no means of passage.
till one day a word,
his brother uses a word
that makes no pretense,
that shocks, stuns, and
force!admits me to a reality,
I, knew but couldn't admit

schizophrenic.

here I am sundered speechless;
as a new form of sadness now
internally prevails, and I am
even more quiet than usual,
contemplative, they call it,
but
I recognize sad/mad in every one
of its manifold disguises, and wonder
just how much, own ingenious genes,
the paucityof my impoverished down~
bringing brought, bought, caught,
contributed to this loss, this onus,
this cross that has no answer to the
                                   *only question that matters,
                                     how much,
                                     am I the guilty party
                                                           ­              the disaster father
Moo Sep 2
I find god in the most devious of places,
In monks,in religions castrated
In a strangled bird that sings
I find god without wings
In delusional angst, I claim defeat
What you have is what I need
A parched illusion gives rise to this man's delusion
I am what depletes
I am the scorn that dares to reap
Moo Sep 2
Deceased at the very best
            I am no mans anger
                         I am no mans rest
Moo Sep 2
Like a dog I keep,
A bone,a body, a heap
Not of flesh but of solitude,
Only to rattle on a day,
My mother when bewitched and my father grey,
A luminous storm to free,
Their interviewed fate,their tragedy
Moo Jul 9
As exasperating as it sounds,
I know of love that merely hounds.
It breaches you, unshorn,
It tails you, worn.
It sits within the fists,
It masters all your glee,
It longs to drag you to your knee.
  Jun 29 Moo
Nat Lipstadt
Do not stand
          By my grave, and weep.
     I am not there,
          I do not sleep—
I am the thousand winds that blow
I am the diamond glints in snow
I am the sunlight on ripened grain,
I am the gentle, autumn rain.
As you awake with morning’s hush,
I am the swift, up-flinging rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight,
I am the day transcending night.
     Do not stand
          By my grave, and cry—
     I am not there,
          I did not die.
— Clare Harner, The Gypsy, December 1934
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Do_Not_Stand_at_My_Grave_and_Weep
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