Through submissions,
   hearts clad to Submittable && low entry fees, these we's
                                                  beg your ear raw,
what a fine man,
              who has or has not fumbled our work;
                                                                              Mister Green.

Soliloquist (n.), so,
                   the dictionary’s script nags:
send in to Mister Green!
A submission,
                          then, a guiltless thing,
                          to make it so, grinds gangrene from Mr. Grn's

                                         Freakish, gild fingers, fraught with chicken-fat,
                               thought-thicket typists;
a submission,
                         then, Heart of Palm,
                         is latter in art, if offending the lien.

monetize not the work of one’s,  
                               it is told to keep in mind;
as if poetry brings wealth; then, there is sea between
                                 ink and we:

Cupped bedrocks curdled with jettisoned envy,
                                                  the sea itself in contempt,
expects these even squalors
                     submissions, that "thee" could be "thy"
          thee! Thee! Thee?

             Save the avant-
             garde! for parts of letters are reworded
        clearer; and let
                                 a submission,
                                 a "let us listen,"
       where even in
       silence’s shriveled seams

Some part of self-narrative opines:
                 "poetaster to the public" – towards
  Dickinson’s frog;
             poetry as ship-log;
     a submission
                                                                  a dream,
                                Mister Green.
literaturistically (neologism ++ nominalization,
       but this is poetry) && not literally
not medically,              brain-body
                   insanity seems to be          an affliction

        tamed by Rx && (walks w. golden dogs?)
                                       (talks w. golden dogs?)

of the perpetual, ambient evocation
        of near-pure form                
             an amassing no. of
even-keeled yen's have succeeding
      in forgoing.
for the droll, poverty-stricken derelicts...

when the eviction notice
has well past expired
and you’re tossed out
in the streets with your
personal belongings
that quickly disappear
by the scavengers of
society and the car
has been reposed and
the card keeps declining,
all without job or drink
and you’re feeling
tired   hungry   broke
and completely
down and out...
remember that
you always have
Monday as a gift;
a gift only to yourself
and you can do what
you want with it
when the rest of the world
are tucked away in their
crestfallen jobs
Say good
write better
do best
take little
give big.
any person investing faith in goodness could be a saint.
after i've watched
the short hand slip into sunday
your last hymn sung to the soup
glistening in the fires of your ritual
might you drop your linens
so I may take for myself
a strawberry
bathed in sudor


après avoir regardé
la courte main glisser dans le dimanche
ton dernier hymne chanté à la soupe
scintillant dans les feux de votre rituel
pourriez-vous enlever vos draps
donc je peux prendre pour moi
une fraise
baigné de sudor
I have discovered that most of
the beauties of travel are due to
the strange hours we keep to see them:

the domes of the Church of
the Paulist Fathers in Weehawken
against a smoky dawn—the heart stirred —
are beautiful as Saint Peters
approached after years of anticipation.













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