Last night, I took off Emily Dickinson's clothes.

Yeah, gee, I guess this is my favorite movie.

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(Source: newsweek)

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Balcony by MCE (1949)

Balcony by MCE (1949)

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3/4 all the way to the moon.

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Leaves on Afton Down, 2/12/85 by Andy freakin’ Goldsworthy

Leaves on Afton Down, 2/12/85 by Andy freakin’ Goldsworthy

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cower from the click of the crickets on the slick patch of the greasy grey grass: but to cower from the click of the crickets is fine:

don’t worry, it never lasts.

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"Keep cool but care."

V. by Thomas Pynchon

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I put my
good felt hat
on the peg
just as soon
as I came
in the door,
making it
the only thing
that didn’t fall
when I walked
down our
small hallway
and into
the kitchen
and saw
what you did
to our children.

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Owl Anatomy

We wear rubber gloves and those paper-filter
masks, the kind the evening news tells you to buy

in bulk. This is for the dust and parasites, they say.
Birds in the wild lead admittedly barbaric lives.

Two neat incisions, no bigger than pennies,
parallel on opposites sides of the aerodynamic

body, right underneath and at the base of
those wide and beautiful wings,

show us a lattice of bones and spaces between the
bones, lattice work to make a spider jealous

just to imagine the slightest tug southeast, south-
southeast, curving the animal into a higher current

frozen in place in the air
above my mind’s eye

while the head is tilted back and held in place
by a machine-cut square of double-sided

tape, holding the skull neck and collar bone
academically exposed to the gaslight glow

of the white room’s humming halogen lights,
the kind that can be plainly heard from outside,
even when the door is closed.

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Gomorrah, Like Sodom.

Don’t stack the sand like that,

end on tiny end:

you’ll never reach Heaven that way.

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by JL

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you’re wrong
and the dogs who knew better are laughing at you.

That’s not thunder.
that sound?
The one
that you thought

That isn’t thunder.
It has absolutely nothing

or at the very least very little

to do with the natural phenomenon
of defiant clouds and hikers
known as thunder, static
stitches of electricity

hills and wide green fields
speckled, a shooting range,
the wiry grey smears
of underfed horses
melting in the sun, spooked
and confused
like a widey’d little girl

who thought that the books falling
from the high shelves and tables that this earthquake
shakes like a nightingale gospel church
were measured peals of thunder, hail or
Rain, weather and phenomena, somehow
opening books to meaningful pages.

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Jazz (#5)

Two sidewalks, as gray as you’d expect,
running parallel along the longer sides
of a side street in south Baltimore;
the smell of diesel and salt mix
with an expert toxicity, a grifter’s concoction:
which would make this street your crooked spoon:
the streetlights your tall, well-postured candles:
and the sidewalks

are wide & clumsy veins
snaking through the arm
or perhaps the too-long neck
of an eastern seaboard sort of nightmare,
left unconcluded and rabbit-awake
by a sudden whistle
from an unexpected train,
crashing through the meaner part of town
on bright rails as thin as dimes,
dull sheens of hot sun
sparkling free the triplets
of the endless, haunting coda

of a cardboard colored place
where they cannot afford
the privilege to a life
free from these powerful deliriums,
this noxious improvisation of the soul.

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Waltz Time

As a stream bubbles waltz time,
you are avoiding something.
Something large and cruel,
with black wings like volumes
spreading amplified
on the both sides of the body
to consume what’s left of your pasture.

This is nothing new:
when Galahad saw red
running thoroughfare streaks
of very specific cells
down the fine polished silver
of a chainmail bracer,
he yelled something similar,
chastising the patient dusk
of a too-green English forest,
sick to his stomach
while Blake hallucinated Jerusalem
in the fog that stumbles southward from Sussex.

Men are known, for the most part,
for their talents, their proficiencies
a certain adroitness
of thumb and forefinger
that sets them apart
on graceless wooden pedestals
from all those bats with untreated rabies,
leathery faces
raging against a crimson world
as untreatable blood flows a cautious circuit,
back and sallow forth
between London and Marygreen,
a slow train with lots of stops
that only comes on the hour,
and on Sundays?
Forget it.

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the steel-sided aerosol can
sits there crooked narrow nail
hole put right through the left-
hand side east facing to a shaking sort of wind and
all we can hear is the rattle a marble
inside the metal or maybe
that’s where all our teeth went,
the pieces of ourselves (no bigger than
candy) that we put under faces shaped like pillows
and were taken away by the time morning came,
(round and sudden suns)
but something came and took our teeth
when it was still dark outside
and somehow never woke us up.

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