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Bobby Copeland Nov 2021
So I picked up this gig trying
To enlighten the universe
And it's bad pay and long hours,
Benefits more intrinsic than
Bankable, but it needs doing
And just like my uncle Virgil,
When he retired from the Castle
On the Cumberland--the state pen
Where he'd worked since he was thirty--
Told me, there's not many vicious
Killers, not even among the
Lifers, just things that went bad wrong
And could have been to me or you--
Something you need to remember.
Bobby Copeland Nov 2021
These words will have no life,
Unless you take them in,
Revive them with your breath ,
Allow their lingering.
Abandoned letters
Have no aspiration,
No strength to move feathers,
Approach explanation,
Coerce your lips to move,
As one possessed or cursed--
Hell finds a way to shove
Its wages in your purse.
And when it's all been said,
Give praise for what you've heard.
Bobby Copeland Nov 2021
time is the sun we move around
through shadows and reflections
expecting more
a prophet or a sacrifice
how do we hold the sound
of any place without a name
some avenues allow return
their beauty having lingered
i find myself convinced
though why remains unclear
that we've something more to learn
some word or some experience
something that would obviously matter
Bobby Copeland Nov 2021
For all things mortal,
Love has time--
when nothing else
has reason--
stays past the time
one not staying
would be gone.
Bobby Copeland Nov 2021
it is enough
to be in your arms
when all the stars are falling
nothing i have found
approaches your
no words of prophets or messiahs
have your faith
what you so innocently touch
Bobby Copeland Nov 2021
Five-thirty has its own regard
For my reflection in a flat,
Tripartite looking glass above
The shaving sink where a trick of
Light removes it from the middle
Panel as I carelessly leave
It slightly unclosed so that my
Face is displaced, the mirror not
Returning recognizable
Information concerning my
Disappearance, which is no more
Amazing in the early light
Than the evening carnival with
It's unrelenting fun house view.
Bobby Copeland Oct 2021
Considering the comical
Conception & the tragic fate,
Our clowning on a party night
Has shadings of a miracle
When even on all spirits' eve
We drink the wine that turns to blood,
Then spit it at the axe man's hood
And turn as if we meant to wave
Toward the setting evening sun
That calculates the time of day
And asks for change like errand boys
Who hold out *****, upturned hands,
Expecting less than what they need--
Repairs for broken bones and wings.
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