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the poems on this page have nothing to do with windoz 95:.
< the rain comes >
< new morning >
< down by the river >
< not with yellow flowers >
< long trucks >
< taking your time >
< the glass keeps me from touching you >
< your soft breath >
< no one to speak to >
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.
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< the rain comes >
some tiny drops
i cannot
call them tears
i cannot call them
anything
the rain comes one day
it leaves the next
we are all like that
living
from one sun
to the next
- -
< new morning >
the smooth perfection
of a new morning
the promise that today
everything
will be done
that today
old letters
asking old questions
will be answered
that today
the very best that's in us
will come out
and will bless
and be blessed
by the smooth perfection
of morning
- -
< down by the river >
the body
smooth and white
is waiting no longer
and the stab wound
washed by the water
looks like a scratch
but admits your finger
like a small mouth
- - -
< not with yellow flowers >
i start out trying
to write a poem about yellow flowers
about the ones i saw today
these yellow flowers
are the first flowers of spring
even before the skunk cabbages
in the low parts of the river bed
but another poem about yellow flowers?
it's like making a movie about two
people finding each other and
disliking each other then
falling deeply in love
it's been done
by wonderful poets
(the yellow flowers, i mean)
but maybe you haven't read them
those wonderful poets
and you're reading me right now
so possibly
i can get away with it
but i want more
and who has more?
TV
the TV knows
i turn on
the "today's worst" news
and listen to the body counts
of the firearms companies
and watch
how that couple from the 23rd floor
learned to fly
and listen
to the 911 recording
that child left
see
it works
that's how you do it
not with yellow flowers
- - -
< long trucks >
this time of year
especially
just off the interstate
walking my dog
taking a piss myself
just listening
to all those tires
- -
< taking your time >
knowing
the exact soft place
the muzzle presses
beneath your chin
pointing the barrel
your brain
calculates a path
straight through itself
imagines the bullet
a quiet
leisurely
moment later
- -
< the glass keeps me from touching you >
the glass keeps me
from touching you
i
am the only one thinking this
about you
so why
is it so hard to
hold you in my arms
a million million
arms hold
a million million
us
you and me
so why is it so hard
to the left and right
they fall so easily
like leaves
over and over
greeting
the start and end
- - -
< your soft breath >
tonight
i have dead people
singing to me
it's as easy
as putting a record on
it's as easy
as remembering your soft breath
through all these years
- -
< no one to speak to >
finally
my dad
has no one to speak to
death is that way
for all of us
though we cannot admit it now
even though we say we can
all of us
will finally
have no one to speak to
so practice now
to speak to yourself
to understand
to listen
to your own voice
- -
. . .