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Paul Apr 8
First, a tundra in stasis;
a white-*****, emptied book
whose unmade letters sleep:
icy, furled, and blank. Then,

breath; a near audible thawing
of unbridled shapes and mute
fire; now, the bright stampede
of hooves breaking into the field. Next,

words.
a poem about the process of conceiving and writing a poem. hope you like it.
Paul Apr 2
coffee
acrid and black
i love you

struggle
unending
you school me

life
acrid and black
i love you
Paul Mar 22
A weight bearing down
on the yellowed bed, in the used room
indelibly,

the way memory indelibly shapes
judgement and its contents.
And by the bed, a yellow daisy

capturing sunlight, brightly mourns
as if its vase were an urn
and now were ashes,

as though knowing its brief
and trembling time must, like every loss,
soon become an absence.
Paul Mar 13
a ceiling fan revolves over the bed arrhythmically
yellowed wallpaper archives a million cigarettes
and fewer post ****** reprieves. from his fingers
the snaking upward blue smoke of burning tobacco
reveals turbulence. she has gone back into the world.
Laying in the mise en scène of their aftermath he smokes
like a figure growing distant in a cinematic moment
expunged of heroism. The yellowed sheets roped around
his ankles recall an inmate’s noose. She'd been inside.
For twelve whole years. The way she assumed her role,
in the act, always telling: face to the wall, silent as though
it were a frank and basic meal, an intimacy of terseness.
     he drew deeply, and a ring of orange bloomed
fugitively proclaiming love remained
a chance. who could know? the fan swung
in elliptic loops beating back the hot air
and pummelling the lone smoker blankly.
her parting glance was inscrutable. he watched
the curtains billow from the room like a flag
or a veil over the parking lot, as if something
important were happening. A square of sky,
framed by the window, spoke of larger things -
and under the window a dog assuaged its thirst
lapping at the drips that leaked from a pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary
Paul Feb 26
When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sighed for thee;
When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turned to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest.
I sighed for thee.
Isn't that delicious? (written 1825 approx.)
Paul May 2017
By Carrie Fountain


Just now it has come
to me again: the sudden
knowledge of everything
that remains to be done
though I worked my *** off
this week, doing things, doing
things. What is my style?
is a question I have never
asked until now, in the waiting
room at my dentist’s,
when this article in O Magazine
encouraged me so cunningly
to do so. Maybe it is not
my job to surprise you, not
anymore, says the spirit.
O.K., I say. O.K. But still,
I want one more crisp
image, just one, though I know
I don’t deserve it, I want it
to appear the way money once
or twice in my life has appeared
in my line of vision on
the street: some bill, nearly
alive, green god, its skin
giving off evergreen light,
unaccounted for and then
immediately mine, no
questions asked.
Paul Nov 2014
Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.
Wallace Stevens, Tea at the Palaz of Hoon first published in Harmonium (1921)
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