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 Dec 2015 Colin Anhut
ECKate
7:20
 Dec 2015 Colin Anhut
ECKate
i'm studying bones and i think of yours
no one can **** me like you do,
but someone will love me more.

© 2015 Kate Volk
 Dec 2015 Colin Anhut
ECKate
12:48
 Dec 2015 Colin Anhut
ECKate
our orchid's petals are stuck to stem
        forbidding it's rest,
& it's time to rise again
with dire thoughts i beckon their soft landings;
                        one
                                by
                          ­            one
                                                             ­                                                    i desire their fall

but still,
they remain standing

© 2015 Kate Volk
sometimes
i apologize so much
i feel like i'm saying sorry for my existence
I'm so sorry
(for the love of Yocum...who may shoot me yet, someday...)



most like 'em
simple, short,
bite size sweets,
easy to please,
a mouthful of amusement,
even if taxing,
tax me only briefly

a small remarque,
a tiny tingling digestif,
easily consumable,
easily forgot,
a couple of lines,
one ooh, one aah,
minimum is the maximum

never been that way,
**** hard to write
what ya ain't,
so keep on scribbling
a pack of stray dog thoughts,
long, loud, and sometimes
subtly & dangerously straightforward

~~~~~~~

(feel free to stop here)

~~~~~~~~

easy are the chocolates of
loves disputations
pained morsels of remorse,
lovely to be found,
even lovelier when  lost

cream fillings of twinges of regrets,
violence wrecks the heart,
what might have been, or once was,
subjects that guarantee the
affection of the great unaffected

writ my fair share,
stage three, t'is methinks,
of the ten step process
getting more n' more
writing-addicted,

don't begrudge
the overly simplistic,
still I am, hard aside,
rough adjudging,
tiresome trite are the
dust mites of poetry

as for my own mixture of
mostly mutt and purebred
stray dog thoughts,
ones that chase
solitary strangers down
late night streets,
see you hiding from the lamplight
in the in-between shadows,
when we tender invites to
all loonies & loneliest,
join up!
with this ragtag pack of
estranged poetry dogs

maybe they don't tickle your fancy,
our words, abstruse and direct,
dictionary lookup dignified,
observations of a man
looking outward,
after looking caustically inward,
every thirty seconds

the tint of his glass enclosure,
modulating the tenor and timbre,
of his singing voice,
the changing light complecting
his visage, his visions,
his hell-howling versions of
packets of stray dog thoughts


the individual words,
constituent members of
roaming, stray dog thoughts,
sometime silent,
usually growling,
once in awhile,
roughhouse barking

but what I got is
what I get,
what I give,
scraps to eat,
raps of notional emotional
stray dog thoughts

so if ya hear those footfalls,
words that just can't be refused,
run for places where the crazies
can't get in, the packets locked out,
unlessing you wanting
to howl along side,
an appreciative audience
who can't get enough of,
consuming whole candy boxes,
in one sitting of
words that keep coming,
I will howl mine
own stray dog thoughts**

you can always shoot that **** howling dog
you like 'em short and sweet
someday when I run out of notions and emotions,
and a love for words,
I will write fewer...

I will not bastardize myself on the altar of popularity, fk that *****...
she tread around me with
such mock care
with a stifled grin she asked if i was sure
with a teasing voice she narrowed her eyes
and looked as deep as she dare
perfumed and adorned but as alluring as
her spanish leather truth
so like a fool i made sure much to her delight
for
dance on the head of a red hot pin
dance on the heart of darkness with a devilish grin
the empty promise of her touch is as good as sin
for
she wears the apparel of luxuriant garden
but delinquent her self esteem like rose petals
fall scented to the illusionary waters of her dry as bone desert heart
she entices me with beckoning gestures
in this wilderness of heat
in this place of madness
for
as i lay now alone in her aftermath
i dream a dream of her that will be mine alone
long after the candles have died
i forgive myself
as i think would she
and live now to dream my dream
live now
for
 Dec 2014 Colin Anhut
W D Haven
Our eyes are different
our minds so similar
Hearts struck from cliffs
of porous stone
how can you change
what you are after?
At breakneck speed
it is roll or run

My guise is significant
Adaptations adequate
In founding, proscribed
By a burrowing throne
Allocated empathy
Out of arbitrary agony
The suns of our comforts
Can boil your bones

Remember the wild call.
The earth between your toes
How nature allows us
There's no wrong way without a road
Internalize those symmetries
That form a greater whole
We are each what God sought
When he swore and broke the mould
 Dec 2014 Colin Anhut
C S Cizek
Write everyday.
Write everyday no matter what.
Write even at a loss for words.
Write down the sounds.

I make notes of the plane crashes
I've never heard, the brook trout
that never shook pond water
onto the brittle grass when I didn't
catch it, or the thunder cup coil
I keep kneeing trying to give the overcast
over the mountain something to compete
with.

And I'm not sorry.
       I'm not.      I'm not sorry that my
reborn Christian best    friend    has   seen the    light,
and I still scoff when people pray over potatoes.
And I only believe in plastic Polaroid postcards
from last decade timestamped in the white space
with Bic black ink.
I'm not sorry for that.

And truth is, I've never washed this black shirt;
just hung it hoping that moths' would ****
the sweat spots and leave
the fabric.

I clenched the gold cap beneath
my ring finger from the glass green
bottle occupying my lips driving
down the Marsh Creek bridge.
I wanted to relate / to be relatable /
relative to the sedans, and seatbelts
too tight to breathe, passing me.

At the end of the bridge, where there was no chance
of drowning and the road color changed, I parked
in the driveway of a wooden house. Its blinds
were up, shades pulled apart with two hands
like gas station freezer doors, leaving them
vulnerable to the hiss of semi truck tractor
trailer high beams slicing through fifty +
raindrops per second going a few miles shy
of sixty-five, yet the people inside moved so freely.
I  sat Indian-style—a term I learned at four
then learned it to be racist at fourteen—
in their driveway, and ate the gravel
they walked on trying to taste security
because all I'd had in the last few hours
were plates of refried fear.

Fear of audit, of my teeth breaking off,
and of ending up like Eric Garner
when I heard that wailing
Voice of Justice
coming for me in the distance.
 Dec 2014 Colin Anhut
Josh Bass
She was my Drugstore Cowgirl
It's tough this time of year
She smelled like Christmas Trees
and pallet fires
rooftops were not safe
from our company
Car rides
Sips of beer
And medusa's stare
The Violent Femmes carried
through the air
I can still feel her hugging
on the sleeve of my grandfather's
old Army jacket
I tried too hard and not enough
She got bored
Some inspiration from 311
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