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Literature Text
Apollo stalked a river nymph
While Moscow looked with starry glimpse
And all that clemency of man
Showed no remorse after Japan.
Instead the dire marathon
Of bloodless states did dawn upon
A mournful Artemis in tears:
The glory of two thousand years.
Behind the curtains of despair
Treblinka, Dachau and the chair,
Onward stood then the next conquest
A giant leap for either chest.
Away, amidst an icy lane
Where stray and stricken do remain
He leashed the throat of nature's pride;
All of his virtues laid aside.
A warmer, yet lackluster cell,
A diet of insipid gel,
A life beneath the measured glare
Of pressured breath and pressured air.
Until at last his proctor's prize,
His Sputnik-2 ready to rise,
They let her spend her final day
With mankind's finest acts at play.
And Laika looked through steaming eyes
At His sliced land and shredded skies,
Before Armstrong's small step of ours,
She slept amid the weeping stars.
While Moscow looked with starry glimpse
And all that clemency of man
Showed no remorse after Japan.
Instead the dire marathon
Of bloodless states did dawn upon
A mournful Artemis in tears:
The glory of two thousand years.
Behind the curtains of despair
Treblinka, Dachau and the chair,
Onward stood then the next conquest
A giant leap for either chest.
Away, amidst an icy lane
Where stray and stricken do remain
He leashed the throat of nature's pride;
All of his virtues laid aside.
A warmer, yet lackluster cell,
A diet of insipid gel,
A life beneath the measured glare
Of pressured breath and pressured air.
Until at last his proctor's prize,
His Sputnik-2 ready to rise,
They let her spend her final day
With mankind's finest acts at play.
And Laika looked through steaming eyes
At His sliced land and shredded skies,
Before Armstrong's small step of ours,
She slept amid the weeping stars.
Literature
Everything You Borrowed
On Sunday afternoon,
after exiting the church,
you plucked the sun from the sky
and hid it in your palms
so that when I held your hands
they would no longer be cold.
When Monday night arrived
you snatched every single star
and used my tears to make
a necklace.
Tuesday's empty dawn shone
through the cracks of the door--
you stole the promise of what
could never be
and draped it around my shoulders.
After Wednesday's twilight passed,
you grabbed the clouds
and wove a tapestry of lies
that I hung on the walls
of my prison.
Thursday crept through us
on silent tiptoes,
waiting for us to take notice--
instead, we merely waited
for midnight to
Literature
Midnight Thought Process
Perhaps the trees live so long because they have no idea how long they've been around.
I stood with my wine glass and cigarette staring into the night as I heard the sound of fireworks, I wondered if the giant tree before me knew it was new years. There is nothing different from 11:59 to 12:00 yet we feel like it's a world away, because we judge many things in time, and we keep track of time in years.
I sat hugging a pillow, watching a 4 month old baby sleeping during his dream-feed and I wondered if the baby knew it was a boy. There is nothing different from a boy baby and a girl baby yet we feel like we have to define them because we judg
Literature
Heat Advisory
We are an air-mass thunderstorm at the height
of an Indian summer -- a cloudburst colliding
into a cyclone, raising the temperature of any
who wander through our sweaty inversion.
I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,
straight into a clap of thunder conceived by
lightning fever. A roiling heatwave travels
across our connection, evaporating the atmosphere
surrounding the eye of our storm. Your humid
breath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,
pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.
Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,
a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.
And as the barometer spikes,
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A tribute to the first animal to orbit the Earth.
Comments19
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This is powerful; it gave me chills. Gonna have to read this a couple more times to understand it fully.
If I may ask a question: You said in your response to a critique that you're an anti-modernist writer. Does that simply mean you tend to write in this fashion, or that you're actually against modernist writing in general?