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Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Medusa's Kitchen published these photos and poems today.


If we could only

Remember how the

Words worked, the ones

That helped change the seasons

So that no one would notice

Until time itself had piled

Up snow or leaves or

Rain upon rain into the center

Of a month, but we

Could not. Here faces were burned

Off, limbs were regarded

As cord wood, milk spilled

From mouths. We could not

Begin to disguise our disgust

Of the shape dreams made

On the walls of our villages.

Someone said the wands had been

Taken from the area long ago.

Still, we could see lights in the jungle

Night occasionally. They were music.

They were our voices.

We thought they were our homes on fire.


Bullets dream the taste of flesh.

The parting of the skin to red

Fountains and the splinter of bone.

Saints speak with tongues made of fire.

The names of God split with desire’s

Sweet tooth pulled up against the spine.

The night is away from home.

I have seen where it goes,

How it borrows morning

From the dream. Listen to this wind.

It clots just below the sky,

Squats on the tops of hills,

Staring down at its own rivers

Deep, like blood.

Look here. A hand dips down

Into a palace of feeling.

Perhaps it is someone loving someone

We might not have noticed except

That the hand squeezes drop after drop of blood

From the wells from which we drink.

This kind of language is full of pretty

Things like this. Come out here with me.

The sun seems about to move from

Behind those trees, to wake up the birds.

If we are so perfect just this once

We can watch the bullets pick their way

Through the body. The smell of gunpowder

On the air. A morning filled with roses.

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