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Nicole Henares |
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The Downcast Dreamer for Lorca Tonight it's just me and the owls saying to hell with it all surrounded in miniature ornamental beauty snow-globes useless objects unremitting and limpid searching for the ineffable in the stink of the city soggy gutters hot pineapple ATM machines rust and dream white laced with sticky sorrow and the ash of rage I'm turning mermaid and a bit sea-witch my heart with the sexless ocean shiny hard and gawdy while the owls get drunk like pigeons hoot titillations of angels and soundless blessings to empty arms Once You Called Yourself a Gypsy and Had Green Hair for Christopher Gibbs (1972-2001) I find my sorrow submerged in dusty plums, sleepy honeysuckle, towering concrete and bruised archways in these strange San Francisco streets. The pigeons outside my window gurgle polluted coos of greasy feathers and jalapeno sunflower seeds while I wonder why the needle was in your arm after four proud years. In my dreams I stumble on a sequined roller coaster in a cloud vortex of pines to Halloweens, my Snow White costume, your skeleton hands, Katie's virgin pin, when I threw up on the Giant Dipper and you named me "Roller Chunks," fellatio mimicry on my answering machine, your way of saying call me back, Always you fluting butterscotch and orange crystal laughter, Waking me to a silent geography an extended empire of blurred memory and circling death flies in the heavy drops of August. [Index] |
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Thunder Sandwich #26 - Summer/Fall 2005 |
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