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Month: October 2016

The New Clubs

They lie in a cart online and some mornings
I pull them out, weigh them, feel in my palms
look down silver shafts and stand in the box
at Bethpage Black or even Merion

where I caddied as a boy and had no clue
what it meant, what men do to chase
the ineffable before slipping them back
into their expensive bag to return to work.

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Poet’s Notes:

An image of the original paper draft is below.
If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

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Wasting Friendship

In the morning at my house
my friend explained how
he’d unplugged my appliances
before going to bed.

And why did you do this
I asked. He told me it was
wasteful and bothered him.

I guess it trumps friendship
I said. He shrugged and added
but then we’ll all be dead.

We’ll all be friendless first
and that’s kind of dead, I said.
He shook his head and began
plugging everything back in.

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Poet’s Notes:

Based on a true story! (Happened to a friend of mine.)

An image of the original paper draft is below.
If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

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Two for the Season

Bloodlust

 

You want to believe the age
has moved past ax and mace
and menacing machete

maybe nowadays we’ve just
perfected pleasantries
conceal our short knives

and pistols tucked into
our pockets and purses
because we so hate blood

and suffer for animals
yet bloodlust for human
vengeance seems unchanged.

_____________

The Song of the Bigot

 

Here’s a bullet for you
or better, a projectile
place it in my tube
set the azimuth
pop it in your yard.

I didn’t say it was nice
or neighborly, but I am
being quite up front about
what I think of your kind
moving into my town.

 

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Poet’s Note:
If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

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Late in Brooklyn

It is late and time for bed
and I hear a siren scream
past my window again
and I think of where it’s
not going; to the non-crimes
as I look at the buildings and
thousands upon thousands
not doing a single thing to
harm another; so who reports
on damages that don’t happen
on murders not committed
on crimes that never broke
through a conscious mind.
Who is compiling statistics
for
 the crime that isn’t happening?
For it is something to witness.

 

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Poet’s Notes:
An image of the original paper draft is below.
If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

new-doc-126_1

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The Wolf at the Door*

The wolf at the door
my mother used to say.
Are you keeping him
away? I wasn’t.

He remained in the yard
to circle on a chain.
Most nights sniffing and
scratching and carrying on.

A cocked eye stared out
as I reassured myself he
couldn’t get in. He’s kept
by my own terrible hand.

I never did get out much.
Never could afford more.
He prowled my yard and
howled inside my heart.

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Poet’s Notes:

This has been published out of order.
It was originally sent on Sep 16 via email distribution.

The original paper draft is below.
If you feel strongly about this poem, leave a comment (further) below.

new-doc-127_1

Please like & share:

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