Good Bones -Maggie Smith
March 23, 2018, 7:10 am
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Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

 

-found here

 

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my favorite little cheesy line from Hamlet
March 13, 2018, 8:40 pm
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Aracelis Girmay
January 24, 2018, 7:18 pm
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“Oh, body, be held now by whom you love.
Whole years will be spent, underneath these impossible stars,
when dirt’s the only animal who will sleep with you
& touch you with
its mouth.” -Aracelis Girmay



there is a light that never goes out
January 7, 2018, 3:35 pm
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Burning the Old Year – Naomi Shihab Nye
January 5, 2018, 1:39 pm
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Letters swallow themselves in seconds.
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,
transparent scarlet paper,
sizzle like moth wings,
marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.
Orange swirling flame of days,
so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.
I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
only the things I didn’t do
crackle after the blazing dies.


Ecological Poem -Brian Kim Stefans
September 29, 2017, 7:41 pm
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Around the pool the hippos drool
as if the chloride wouldn’t kill them.
In fact, they like to play the fool,
the harbinger, the pilgrim.

The bird that plops into the glass
makes a sound, then isn’t there.
Spiders toss, in oleaginous mass,
Goo Gone into the air.

The ants that drag a beat-up car
onto the lawn are emissaries
of some forgotten prince or tsar
from an HBO miniseries.

The cheetah, panther, jaguar, and lynx
(some of these might be the same)
conjure images of Sphinx
and other trademarked names.

The dynamited hole now teems
with insects shiny and obscene,
crawling, dying, though it dreams
an ectoplasm of green.

My own two cats stiffen, confused
at this profusion past the door.
They bat at things they’ve often used
for sound therapy before.

I tell you this out of principle:
that spiraling around a theme
(while naming lots of animals)
can supercharge a meme.

My own skin founders in the rush
of allergenic, if cautious, beasts.
Eyes eye darkness, ears hear hush —
the assassin’s humor feasts.



Cure and Curry -Natalie Rose Richardson
September 29, 2017, 7:38 pm
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My father is a nod, a jilt. Bop.
Insists that 90s music is the jams they
will drop when I have children. Cancel
the station with rap-crap, the cure
for stiff-skin is the blunk of funk and
lilt of lips that pickles like sound-curry.