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Literature Text
Here.
this is your prayer
your mantra, your news.
I leave it as I found it, papering in the streets.
as godless a truth as you will know
it’s still a ghost of a dream
smaller than theories of infinite resolution.
you will believe it because it has no industry
no acolytes or storefronts.
it’s not an embezzlement of fascination
or confabulation of missing histories.
you will not doubt its truth because your design is hollow
the space inside your car
the adventitious spine that vials through the weeds
the ice of march on adam’s needle
the ants, crickets, beetles under sandstone
waiting in a music box for the catalysts to wake
and split them out into the breen.
you will speak of your awareness
without knowing what inhabits it
like a colour that doesn't hum
or passing through a future forest
of apparitions in bald park meadows
agitating the whims of moths
yet to flee the undergrowth
and shards of glass, long since buried
in layers of gentle cataclysms.
you will sing, continuously, in sonorants
through your childrens’ childrens’ tongues
these thoughts unburdened by your words
these psalms without a prophet.
this is your prayer
your mantra, your news.
I leave it as I found it, papering in the streets.
as godless a truth as you will know
it’s still a ghost of a dream
smaller than theories of infinite resolution.
you will believe it because it has no industry
no acolytes or storefronts.
it’s not an embezzlement of fascination
or confabulation of missing histories.
you will not doubt its truth because your design is hollow
the space inside your car
the adventitious spine that vials through the weeds
the ice of march on adam’s needle
the ants, crickets, beetles under sandstone
waiting in a music box for the catalysts to wake
and split them out into the breen.
you will speak of your awareness
without knowing what inhabits it
like a colour that doesn't hum
or passing through a future forest
of apparitions in bald park meadows
agitating the whims of moths
yet to flee the undergrowth
and shards of glass, long since buried
in layers of gentle cataclysms.
you will sing, continuously, in sonorants
through your childrens’ childrens’ tongues
these thoughts unburdened by your words
these psalms without a prophet.
Literature
an atheist's prayer
dear god,
i planted no tulips in autumn
and no tulips came in spring.
how silly of me, then
to mourn the empty garden,
to long for fields of amsterdam,
to kneel at night in cold dirt,
hands folded.
i’ve learned there is
a certain ache in lacking
a thing never had, that small itch
whose relief is two seasons past –
so god, if you can hear me,
know that i am homesick
for amsterdam,
whose name, like yours, i know
but whose flowers i cannot see.
Literature
a list of things colleges don't want to know
1. i have a cactus named atticus that i bought
on the day i thought i was going to die,
and i never forget to water it, not
even when i forget how it feels
to breathe without my lungs rebelling
against my brain.
2. sometimes talking feels like walking on gravel
in a Georgian summer heat.
i try to keep talking anyway,
and hope that eventually
my voice will lose its softness and grow calluses.
3. once, a man whistled at me
outside of a grocery store from
the safety of his car.
four years later, i still haven’t stopped looking
over my shoulder.
4. i drive too fast and i take turns too sharply
and i never put enough sugar
in my tea
Literature
metaphysical
i. open mouth
i trace the outline of my mouth and
dream prisms of prisons and
scorpion houses.
i fit myself into a box
muscles cramp spasm tear
but it's safer this way.
the bricks of my house are made of chequebooks
i want carnations
on my coffin.
i want carnations
burned at my cremation.
i am a fiery prometheus
a dying devil's desperate daughter
i am alive! alive! alive!
refocus the telescope, refocus the wreck into
something
a little more
manageable
(breath comes easy here, it's everything else that's hard)
ii. closed mouth
i'm saying, are you there?
i'm saying, are you listening?
i'm saying, look at the house we built, look at my r
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