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  1. #151
    & Badger, Ratty and Toad Mole's Avatar
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    If you liked the poem, "The Orange Grove", here is the poet, Tori Sharpe, just click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEUBQB-6ljk

  2. #152
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    Decyphered from the static last night and posted today -

    All Dharmas Are Marked with Emptiness

    I'm talking now about the destitute and the wild-eyed, I'm
    talking about the lady who made the head of the Virgin Mary
    out of cut up pieces of magazines and broken glass and a
    can of carpenter's glue—and then there's the girl I know
    who works in the supermarket, who printed an entire anthology
    of poems on a single eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of
    Xerox paper and folded a hundred copies down to wallet size
    and passed them out to anyone who dared look her in the eye.
    You know what I mean: there are all those lonely, desperate,
    weird minds—yours among them for all I know—and the
    Dharma is everywhere, books and words and people thinking,
    beat-up notebooks from the dollar store, scribbling the world
    into them—a man has a mystery, a woman has an adventure,
    the kids are banging rhymes together like tin cans full of
    old nails. Where's it all going, this clatter, this wonder,
    this rant against anguish? I tell myself to stay calm. I tell
    myself to step back and take a breath. I twist and shift in my
    tall black chair. I can hear the city coming in through the kitchen's
    window-screens. Night birds, crickets in the unseasonable heat,
    some might say dead souls keening in their rivers of fire or
    choirs of angels out in the eucalyptus trees, but beyond it all you
    hear nothing but the deep nothing—or maybe that's the far-off roar
    of a motorcycle: If the night is just right, if the moment is perfect,
    you know as well as I do that you don't need to tell the difference.

    - Frank X. Gaspar.

  3. #153
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    If you must see the poet, Frank X. Gaspar, who wrote the poem, "All Dharmas are Marked by Emptiness", just click on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VUNP5ql65C4

    Or perhaps you might like to see Frank read a short poem, "The Olive Trees", by clicking on - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8_1EW...eature=related

  4. #154
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    This bag of fruit masquerading as a suit was sent in by, you guessed it, anonymous, for you to tear to pieces -

    Buying My First Suit

    I remember thinking
    how I had grown

    too few hands
    to fill the outer
    and the inner pockets.

    Then, as instructed,
    I checked the pockets.
    Hands.

    - Mike White.

  5. #155
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    I'm not going to show you the goose this time.

  6. #156
    small potatoes NotOfTwo's Avatar
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    Default

    How about a gosling...?

    "It's never enough." The Cure

  7. #157
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    Filched last night and forwarded today -

    New York Song

    Think of the pear
    and its grainy room the color of parchment.

    How the weight in your hand
    becomes the first song from the grave.
    Brother bone, I have knelt

    in furious beauty,
    drunk root to crown,

    loved you in your sleep, and sleeping,
    felt your spine
    in the shadow of my breasts,

    and waking in the first wine
    of morning, known the nautilus,

    marriage of pearl and roaring.
    I know the scent of pepper
    and gunmetal,

    dark braille my fingers comb.

    There is no loneliness
    like finned mouths opening on the eve

    of something without name.

    - Karen Rigby.

  8. #158
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    Sent to Wikileaks, Poetry Section, last night and posted today -

    The Swim

    The lake, wide but longer
    than the imagination (it makes its own
    north and south), comes prettily
    to our feet, a giant animal grown
    gentle. Is it like anything else
    we know? I remember being thirteen and
    briefly in love with a boy already
    as large as a large man, and him offering
    his tender lips to mine—the rest of his
    body there, but not touching, not yet.
    Have we forgotten everything else?
    If I want I can remember everything—
    the not tender, the not gentle—
    but look at what were being offered,
    the chance to strip down, accept grace
    with our grace, dive in and forget.

    - Gigi Marks.

  9. #159
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    If you are determined to see the goose, click on - http://internationalpsychoanalysis.n...-gigi-marks-2/

  10. #160
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    Never moved, stirred nor shaken, the -

    Delinquent

    Odd that the office would be so bright, painted in warm
    shades of butter and honey, while outside the light

    slammed down on fenders and on concrete posts and frozen
    snowfields glazed with melt. This lockdown they call spring.

    I had, God knows, no love for the grackles
    mobbing the edges of the parking lot. The ice had melted

    at the edges of the asphalt, and the frozen earth appeared to yield
    some crumbs of seed or grass or insect carapace, yet I could not

    stop watching them shoulder each other and threaten, with their
    street-punk strut, bickering over privilege to pick at the hard ground.

    In winter everything is winter and some must die, I thought.
    I slouched in the blue eggshell chair, pulling at a thread

    unraveling on my jeans and would not look up; sun hit my eyes
    as voices hammered talk of consequences. All that was desired

    lay frozen at my feet, lay on the other side of the wall.
    I would fly through the window, scattering daggers of glass.

    I would disappear in flame, leave only a shape of char.
    When the world is your enemy, and speech an invitation

    to open season on your body: slapped for a word, arrested for a sneer,
    even silence a gesture interpreted by double agents of the mind,

    give nothing away. Lock down. Hunch forward. Erase your face.
    When they take you, as they will take you, away to where

    they are going to take you, you'll be wound so tight you'll bounce;
    you'll make a rattling noise on the ground, and whatever they break

    in you, or break out of you will drag along behind, banging
    and scraping, giving off long shrieks, obnoxious to their ears.

    - Cynthia Huntington.

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