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Friday, April 16, 2010


Outside the air

conditioners breathe

against the weather.

The night

sways its milky light

through these rooms

pleading with time

that the junk of its moment

be preserved in

her dense folds.

We will have none of this.

We have not fallen from grace.

We are inside the fragile

shell of buildings.

We are alone again.

It is as if time

had never made such

another as ourselves.

We are a rare salt

of the heart spilling

each to each.

Here we cannot

hear the street

and its furnaces

of empty space, its

sweltering of forms.

We are moments on

the spine, pure sensation

coursing through the shock

of being chosen by each

to be together.

We hold each other

and listen to the

weave and spin

of the words

of the wave

weave and spin

of the words

weave and spin.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Max Parrish-some great whites-Michael Komack-aion online


(Ptaki Ktore Jedza Pomysty)

The shearwater stays just above

The tops of waves. The air pushes

Their bodies upward inches from

All the ideas of air and water.

Bodies of fire exclaim.

A ball of shining made of ivory,

Made of wood, made of the beaks

Of ten thousand shearwaters.

A scroll unfurls itself, full of allegations

About who gave what gift to whom,

A sliver mine, a pillow full of love

Being wound around sharpened pins forever.

Surely there is a way to keep

These ideas safe. They glow

Like old friendships slowly

Being dismantled by birds

Birds feeding on the soft music

Of believing in things like songs

And the idea that animals can fly.