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Literature Text
Iron thorns push through skin, I’m part of an installation piece
Flesh and bone, metal and stone, electronics
Wheeled in on a cot, phones for eyes
That never ring
But I see how they look at me; (they’re thinking)
How lonely it must be to slowly die alone
They smile anyway, good at faking it
After all, it’s their job
One day the artist will be able to push a button, and I’ll spin
My speaker-mouth will sing about snow
Only one more push allowed
And I’ll spin into space
My last human thought will not be of you, but of us, together
Sitting in the cold morning, coffee and cigarettes
Back before they began assembling us
One at a time
for departure
Flesh and bone, metal and stone, electronics
Wheeled in on a cot, phones for eyes
That never ring
But I see how they look at me; (they’re thinking)
How lonely it must be to slowly die alone
They smile anyway, good at faking it
After all, it’s their job
One day the artist will be able to push a button, and I’ll spin
My speaker-mouth will sing about snow
Only one more push allowed
And I’ll spin into space
My last human thought will not be of you, but of us, together
Sitting in the cold morning, coffee and cigarettes
Back before they began assembling us
One at a time
for departure
Literature
post disentanglement of self
as one listens
silence dispels
in whispers
of cosmic hiss
listen to this: [but]
do not sit and listen
nor feel your clothing
nor peer beyond thoughts
as one by one
one ceases to sense
one finds one's mind
luxuriously grand
behind closed eyelids
where everything bides
awaiting one's call
or recall
great and small
ideas will sidle
to satiate
the barren and needful
unmoving unseen
like timid vixen
epiphanies lurk
noiseless nearby
be quiet
be patient
wish one to approach
as one may
quite soundless
soul-weighted
on softest of feet
lightly becoming
of a sudden
there it is
new truth!
so well worth the wait
where silence
[yet not total sile
Literature
workshop
The hearth in your denim pocket,
quietus and earthen floor
windows settle nostalgic dust
and hold outcroppings through their pores:
maps, manuals, flightless single wings
awaiting consequence, a bloodless chore
in the future you have willed the world
for those of us who still remain
workless as the dead.
Literature
Wallflower Dreams
There is
another set of I-don't-knows, another intersection
fifty-one miles on an old country road
where the process of becoming a wallflower
is found
at last, trampled and buried.
From where I sit,
Rorschach stars--so colorful--
winter me gently,
just a girl
with bottled dreams
and stories to tell.
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To place feelings into text is your craft good Sir. You are at home when you write. Thank you for sharing.