the voice of the poet on the other side of the poem feel like i'm almost there. come a time a poem isn't a weed fighting for glances from the sun (readership: you for instance) & no seeding shivers like wheat no bristling orgasmic release in breeze-laden afternoon rolls eyes from here to eternity. being a poet in amerika is a curse -- let nobody fool you. i just want left alone. baby poets have suicide'd for their art. how very silly. plath -- berryman -- list as long as my cosmic dick figuring i am god. i'm the one alive here you weird oh maybe a poem is a record of life of the spirit maybe it's fine to be space dust, to be embraced by telescope'd searching eyes jesus where'd this poem go
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Impetus 25
ISSN: 1044-7490 (c) June, 2000 All rights remain with their creators Web version designed and edited by by Haze @ UrbanDecay.Org Print version edited by Cheryl Townsend at Implosion Press |
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