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jiminy-littly Mar 2019
What people feel?
What do you feel?

I've had this conversation with you before

And still nothing.

A letter might be better
Or
Still more confusion.

You are a queer fellow
Sitting there
Arguing with lampshades
about how little people know
And who is with you
And who's against

It all comes down to
Past lives,
Yeah, the stuff you did before
Being born

So, why don't you just
Leave

And try again.
jiminy-littly Mar 2019
Hands folded
Left over right
Frontal silences temporal

Lobes fear duodendum
Heavyweights fear welters
Humans; robots
Sons their fathers
Sinners, a god

Art too fears
strap-ons, fears fakes
Fears sterility
Fears youth,
Fears age. Now old.

Help!
God.
Serande us with
That which we cannot, or will not
Comprehend

As seeing Khatia sur la sable makes her desirable
How can we honor her, that
I do not understand.
jiminy-littly Mar 2019
By Circumstances Fed

Which divide attention
Among the living and the dead,
Under the blooms of the blossoming sun,
The gaze which is a tower towers
Day and night, hour by hour,
Critical of all and of one,
Dissatisfied with every flower
With all that's been done or undone,
Converting every feature
Into its own and unknown nature;

So, once in the drugstore,
Amid all the poppy, salve and ointment,
I suddenly saw, estranged there,
Beyond all disappointment,
My own face in the mirror.
Post Dedicated to Wayne Purnew
jiminy-littly Feb 2019
I have a plan to go mad
It will not take time or money
You don't have to do a thing
But bring me lunch
A sandwich, maybe, on the train.  
No, on the steps to the platform
You will see me.
No, you do not see me,
tu me sentiras

------- ----- -------

I put my best bottles in the recycle and I was proud watching you take them.  
I thought to myself, they are doing a service, and I them
by washing the bottles out first, I write this until it whistles in my ears.

There are two typos in my last poem
There are two types of poems, my last one and the one that is being written.

I am serious about the ringing in my ears.
jiminy-littly Feb 2019
Black Stone Lying On A White Stone

I will die in Paris, on a rainy day, on some day I can already remember.

I will die in Paris--and I don’t step aside-- perhaps on a Thursday, as today is Thursday, in autumn.  

It will be a Thursday, because today, Thursday, setting down these lines, I have put my upper arm bones on wrong, and never so much as today have I found myself with all the road ahead of me, alone.  

César Vallejo is dead.  

Everyone beat him although he never does anything to them; they beat him hard with a stick and hard also with a rope.  

These are the witnesses: the Thursdays, and the bones of my arms, the solitude, and the rain, and the roads.
By César Vallejo (1892 - 1938), translated and edited by Robert Bly, and published by Beacon Press in Neruda & Vallejo: Selected Poems. © 1971 by Robert Bly
jiminy-littly Feb 2019
Until today
I could not see you
too afraid to look in a mirror
Skin loose
Jaw tight, a motar grinding teeth

A confused looking man,
already?
Are you ready?

Adrift, we alive are dizzy, mad, confused, or blank.

Stroking our nostril hair,
portraying different parts,
one a banker, a father, an assassin
Once even a sort of Irish troll, slash, Quasimodo,
do you regret the metaphor?

How it happened...

akin to looking back
And thinking nothing,
black on black

Whiteshade in light
Static void (smiling cow).

Who was chaufeured around Paris in that film anyway?

That girl, you know, the one who won't wear shoes
Or socks

She plays in several scenarios,
once a mother, a nurse, a nun on the run,
a chemist, a voluptuous ventriloquist,
pregnant, humming, doing the dishes, going to church,
staying up late to feed the cats

can you imagine

playing all those lifetimes on a raft
an inventive vehicle wouldn't you say?

I'm a nobody
Arranging words so they align with thoughts
Uneven and impure

These poems are like living on snack food

What I want to say is,
half of me is out the door

Living with the ants.
jiminy-littly Dec 2018
Frz have you forgotten me?

I hear your voice, but its me saying do not listen

Anyway I say, how are you?
the court records a divorce, a child, and a republican,

You were once a brooklynite, a beloved chassid gal, so hollow to hide, have you moved upstate?

me? maybe inappropriately concerned

I dreamt we will meet one day.

I see you, you see me, then run away furtively,

I race head long, trying to catch you, to touch you at last.  

Mind numb, you duck in the LGBT centre.  I stop.  

Leaving you to minds damnation and hell, a palace of fears, fool for years, you lead me down some steps, through an alley,  open a gate, and smile,

stay here, you say, between two buildings.  

I sit next to the garbage cans against a wall with leafless vines, its the first snow, you never said when you'd be back.

It is now a year before I die, cars roll by noisily, far off a lone siren, someone is digging in the garbage for scraps, it seems impossible that inches away you were within my reach
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