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Zywa Nov 2023
The squatting men place

the spittoon further away --


and aim into it.
Novel "Midnight's Children" (1981, Salman Rushdie), chapter 1-3 "Hit-the-spittoon"

Collection "Low gear [2]"
Avondale Kendja Nov 2016
all the flakes on a *** tattle years
of gas, oil, matches
flames that spread vitriol


they swell into tickles on thin ribs
where old skin will one day ripple like mayo
over water
Jenny Gordon Oct 2016
Why I seem to be fair prey for men my father's age and his friends to boot, I cannot guess.  But how do you be friendly while hating their interest intensely?  He said, "I saw that look!" and I'm not really sorry he did, either.


(sonnet #MMMMMCMLXX)


Thin blue skies peer twixt greyish clouds a sense
Of bitter air wafts from, as if the pale
Eye of uncertain warmth's half golden scale
Of light is fragile and must tiptoe thence
In fear across these rasping fields 'til hence
Called off, whileas how leaves just whisper, frail
Breaths passing through oer naked boughs' detail,
The maples green yet as orange paints suspense.
He pops his head in at my bedroom door in tour,
And I assure him that, "Oh, I know you--"
While classcal music plays, rehearse in poor
'Scuse memries, 'til oer one say that we do
Not hafta lie:  "I'm not availble fer
Whomever--" and he bows...is that adieu?

15Oct16
Hi.  You kin lecture me, if you want a spitfire or rather, trouble on your hands.  Go ahead.

— The End —