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he asked what I wanted to do. I said
write poetry
or
die.
he said
they were the same.
 Apr 2014 Max Alvarez
Edward Alan
les c'est
c'est les

autre autre

c'est les autres

c'est c'est
autres c'est autres les
c'est
les les
les
 Mar 2014 Max Alvarez
Edward Alan
Old man's
old man's
old man
mixes

one part coffee,
one part port,
in bottles marked
Sun. through Sat.

No words for
the grandkids
who split
from

the cast-iron stove
with wood
for warmth
and coal
for cooking,
up

the
skinny,
shoddy
steps
to

the cold, black
room
and six-quilt
beds
while he

sipped his
cocktail
by the
burning barrel
all night.

And what if
one of them
woke and peered
into some dark
corner

and saw
the small
red specter
of a hand-rolled
cigarette
blinking back?
My great grandfather, whom I never knew. He was from Poland and didn't know much English. He's best-known for choking to death on a pork chop. The autopsy concluded he could have easily coughed it up if he hadn't been such a prolific smoker. It didn't feel right discussing this in the poem. These are my father's recollections about him.
 Mar 2014 Max Alvarez
Edward Alan
Spinning, spinning, madness winning—
Psychopathic thought beginning—
Butterflies to catch for pinning—
Spinning thoughts inside my head.

To twirl the net and bring it down—
To trap the beast unto the ground—
Its screaming terror'd not speak a sound—
I stick the pin and pin it dead.

Its writhing, grabbing on the netting—
Sounds I wouldn't be forgetting—
Tapping, flapping, clapping, fretting—
Gradually slowing to a stead.

A cold and sweating, mad reaction—
I sense the tingling satisfaction—
And this is surely just a fraction—
A fraction of the blood she shed.

My carriage wheels had quickly turned—
The case at court was now adjourned,
So early home I had returned—
Returning to my home ahead.

It was a cold and somber morning
When I first received the warning—
A beauty carriage, now adorning—
Standing still at my homestead.

Curious, I stepped out and gazed—
Its presence there left me amazed—
Then I saw my dogs were caged—
Cold and outside, barely fed.

Gingerly I climbed the stairs
And pondered what'd await me there—
And then, this sight, this dark nightmare—
My wife and brother in my bed.

My curiousness then turned to strife—
My temper flared against my wife—
I silently retrieved a knife
To turn her lusting into dread.

I chose to **** Paolo first—
I stabbed his neck and watch it burst—
His silent death increased my thirst—
I watched the ******* as he bled.

Suddenly, my wife awoke—
The ****** mess caused her to choke—
Her agony, in me invoked
A sense of anger, sorely red.

She stumbled, falling on the floor
And tried to scramble to the door—
She looked so sad, so low, so poor,
So shameful as she crawled and fled.

I pinned her down, still writhing, grabbing—
My knife was quickly, sharply dabbing
As my hands were cutting, stabbing—
Stabbing her from overhead.

When she was still, I calmed at last—
Yet vengeance soon would have me cast
To Caina, treacherous and vast—
But it was done. Her blood was spread.
A poem I wrote in high school based on Dante's Inferno. From the perspective of Giovanni Malatesta, who found his younger brother having an affair with his wife, whereupon he killed them both. Dante wrote them into his story, sending Francesca and Paolo to the second circle of Hell.
 Mar 2014 Max Alvarez
Edward Alan
leaked
violet pulse
rapid electrodes
vapor

fail
electron fuse
tube light
ultra input
intensity

flicker
strain
power percent
breaker
visible heat

filament pins
ballast burn
shortwave

excited
electric
gas
I just took all the words I liked from an article about how fluorescent lights work and randomly determined their order. Then I added line breaks and posted.
He’s not how I remembered him
All charming, tall and handsome
He’s podgy, dull and boring
His cockiness has left him

I nearly started snoring
When he told a story
He’s also going baldy
He’s lost his crowning glory.

I’m not saying he’s not charming
He’s sort of…in a way
But not the man I dreamt of
He’s definitely away!

He’s jaded, tired and bitter
There was no spark or flutter
He asked me if we’d meet again?
“Not sure?” I think I muttered.
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