July 2011
Jul 1st
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No One You Know
Oh, shit. This is like the first poem I’ve written this summer. Not good…  This one wants medals on his chest. When he makes a salad, he pretends he is conquering the vegetables: eviscerating, skinning. Partisan green pepper, insurgent spinach. This does not mean he is a violent man: he loves his dog and mother as the river loves its bed, the simple gravity-driven act of water...
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