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  Jun 2018 Amela Kovacevic
Irina BBota
the taste of the wind
reminds me of the sea breeze
inside of Eden
  Jun 2018 Amela Kovacevic
Kara Jean
You're sickening, kisses like  cyanide

I hide, from a world guesstimating

A potentional of none

The different is done

Procrastination is fun

Imagination is hung

Ticky tack in our lack, it's to late to go back

Steadily we stand, no need to navigate

I won't hesitate

The mundane has won
  Jun 2018 Amela Kovacevic
amabel
A vacant room sign hangs outside the door.
I watch from the lobby as potential customers take a peek and leave, underwhelmed and disappointed with what they see.

Rusted handrails on stairs.
Peeling wallpaper with mold at the edges.
Creaking chairs that barely supports any visitors.

Not that there are any.

Sometimes I think I could convince them to stay for a while.
To fill the empty room, but my mouth refuses to open.
It refuses to sell the room using eloquent, convincing words.

How am I supposed to convince them when I can't convince myself?
I wouldn't stay here if I had the choice, so why would they?

I see the same thing onlookers see.
A beaten-down, useless, sad hotel.
There's too much to fix and repair.
It's beyond the stage of renovation.

So my heart stays vacant.
Things feel better but also worse than before.
More fun, more lonely.
Idk.
Just back at it again with 12:53 a.m. thoughts.
I propose a toast
to you
a drink
from the top of your
delicate head
to the base of your
soulful feet

I found you
right in the center of the eye
the deluge of you
carried me higher clear across
the barren sky
as if we were supposed to
crash into each other

But
Only material
things get ugly aging
while we become this strange
phenomena wanton and as wild
as the naked wind upon
the thirst of our eager 
chapped lips
  Jun 2018 Amela Kovacevic
Nat Lipstadt
the earth is curved - sure y’all knew that.  
but to get to the Northwest,
Interstate 84
ain’t le route plus directe

nope curve north to Ontario,
wave to Bex as I cross over
London and Toronto, also can’t recall
which poet from Rochester hails,
or did they shuffle off to Buffalo?

Crossing Erie, Huron, and Michigan Great Lakes all,
brings to mind
my mother’s birthplace,
Last of the Mohicans,
and the three years I did in the Cleveland Penitentiary,
where sun was illegal and baseball was a pretend play
of cowboys and Indians
but by god, it made me
the penitent fella I am today

Look skyward to Montreal,
yes, there he is, the Leo Priest,
the baffled king,
blessing this poetic meet ‘n greet trip
with a smiling unsurprising
hallelujah

Apparently some US citizens still can traverse O Canada,
even if one forgot their passports,
and are not PNG’s (Persons Not so GREAT)

over Minneapolis shed a tear for Diane,
a poet- gone-missing, and wonder if you reader come from
St. Cloud, Fargo or Duluth, Bismarck or Aberdeen,
surely they still speak poetic English there
in a twangy metering methodology  - well, message me asap

wow there really is a Saskatoon!

the pilot asks us to lean left in our seats
to help turn the plane
so we go to Portland and not to Vancouver...
me thinks he might be a touch Rockie Mountain High,
considering we are at 30 thousand something Imperial,
as he walks the main cabin with an oxygen mask and a
huuuuuge grin

see the distant Cascades
through a crack in the shuttered windows,
must be close to “the coast”
(as if, harrumph, there were but one)

ah, words in the clouds, ripe for the plucking
must be getting close to Oregon,
where poets grow on trees, woody words like ****,
and log-float poems down the Columbia to the sea

gonna drink me some poets
under the table cause this
trip I ain’t no driving and I am already
“flying” ‘n scribing and arriving
on a high tide and a good wind
Amela Kovacevic Jun 2018
Tender is the morning
after every taxing night.
Tender is the morning
when I've deemed the sun polite.
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