Poetry and Other Artifacts

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Quetzalcoatl

lcmt

"The melted needles left marks like whisker burn across the icy glaze of her cheek. She did not blame the wrongheaded Quimby, who remained unrepentant, only the bird catcher, whose contrition was a long tangled speech of Ixil and Spanish, completely unintelligible to her. Quimby assured her of its eloquence."

From Sendero de los Quetzales, a novel by Nelida Gajardo, translated by Rona Lilly

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One Day When (A poem for two voices)

lcmt

First voice:

Take me to the river
Wash me in the water

repeat

Second voice:

One day when no one is looking
the sea will fly to the river
and the rhythm of the air
will shake with loneliness
for all who breathed—
Eden will return

empty

and God will be released from his bondage


One day when no one is looking
the earth will flow into the sun
and the seed of fire will
consume itself with desire
for all who burned—
Hell will return

empty

and God will be released from his torment


One day when
no one is looking
God will be released
and the soul of the world will be alone
and the soul of the world will be itself

hallelujah


This poem is included in A Penchant for the Ferruginous.

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approaching vispo

lcmt

More asemic writing. Images are too large for my diary, follow the links.

unseelie

Fifth Birn Glaze

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Heptagram Blues

lcmt

This poem is no longer online.

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Satis

lcmt

This poem is no longer online. Look for it in my new book, The Wife of History and Other Planetary Characters.

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Coast Live Oaks

lcmt

This poem is no longer online. It will be included in Yeasty Peasecods, Let Me Squeegee, upcoming in 2011 (or maybe 2012) from the Intaglio Galosh Studio Press.

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There is a poem in three days of the condor

You take pictures of
empty streets and trees
with no leaves on them.

It's winter.
Not quite winter.
They look like

November.

Not autumn, not winter.
In-between.

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Her Management

Mary Swenson

She does not place, relate, or name
the objects of her hall,
nor bother to repair her ceiling,
sweep her floor, or paint a wall
symmetrical with mountains.

Cylindrical, her tent
is pitched of ocean on one side
and—rakish accident—
forest on the other;
granular, her rug

of many marbles, or of roots,
or needles, or a bog—
outrageous in its pattern.
The furniture is pine
and oak and birch and beech and elm;

the water couch is fine.
Mottled clouds, and lightning rifts,
leaking stars and whole
gushing moons despoil her roof.
Contemptuous of control,

she lets a furnace burn all day,
she lets the winds be wild.
Broken, rotting, shambled things
lie where the like, are piled
on the same tables with her sweets,

her fruits, and scented stuffs.
Her management is beauty.
Of careless silks and roughs,
rumpled rocks, the straightest rain,
blizzards, roses, crows,

April lambs and graveyards,
she chances to compose
a rich and sloven manor.
Her prosperous tapestries
are too effusive in design

for our analyses—
we, who through her textures move,
we specks upon her glass,
who try to place, relate and name
all things within her mass.


To Mix with Time, © 1963

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Palimpsest

lcmt

With marginalia (larger image).

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montane heaven

lcmt

This poem is no longer online. It will be included in Yeasty Peasecods, Let Me Squeegee, upcoming in 2011 (or maybe 2012) from the Intaglio Galosh Studio Press.

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Cephalopods

Dark Chocolate

DiaryLand

according to a consensus
of five co-conspirators
her right eye is blue
her left eye is a match

but she knows one eye
is smaller than the other
and both are the color
of a common gray rock

flecked with oxides
thirty years have passed
since she last wore a shoe
with a broken heel

she inscribes herself
readily as owner
operator general
dogsbody of the Intaglio

Galosh Studio Press
which has neither
intaglios nor presses
nor even a lone galosh

she is a woolgatherer
a dawdler
an ignoramus
an omnivore

a deficient typist

she is nine inches long
from the inside of her elbow
to the inside of her wrist
she is legged but not

bow-legged and less
saline than most people
but that could be
a misapprehension


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© 2010 - 2013 lcmt