Category Archives: Poetry

The Right Lack of Color

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Inaudible Dialogue

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Never permanent vacation

Chemicals

Chlorine

in the swimming pool

Bleach

In the gutter

Pine-straws are getting

Trapped.

Bobbing up and down

In the suction

Of the little White Square

Carved in the middle

Is a hole

the width of a grown-man’s finger.

It’s gross.

But I’m Interested.

Dead bugs

A few worth rescuing.

My eyes are red

and burning

from all the chemicals.

Riverside.

Questionably clean

Water.

Black lines

Ending in T’s.

Eyes wide open.

I’m just skimming by

Passing you in one Breath.

Chemicals turn my

hair golden.

The island on my leg

Is seeping through my new

Found  pigment.

I used to ignore the Sun.

Tuner Annex.

Doors locked

Head floating

Keys Questionable.

An old motel

Renovated and transformed

Into art-student

Slum Land.

An afternoon Vacation

At least two hours long

And 7 feet deep.

Freezing.

A man comes everyday

To check on the Chemicals.

Making sure

the Bleach and Chlorine

are killing the Parasites.

Gold sometimes varnishes

And turns to green.

It doesn’t matter.

I’m gliding through the Navy Blue

And the Heat.

My Face is Melting Off.

Black Lines Running

And Ending in Smears.

Coconut Oil and concrete.

Chemicals and Water.

Never Permanent.

Vacation

Lands.

– Anastasia Frangoulis

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Spill

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Affair

God it’s sexual, opening a beer when you swore you wouldn’t drink tonight,
taking the first deep gulp, the foam backing up in the long amber neck

of the Pacifico bottle as you set it on the counter, the head spilling over
so you bend to fit your mouth against the cold lip

and drink, because what you are, aren’t you, is a drinker—maybe not a lush,
not an alcoholic, not yet anyway, but don’t you want

a glass of something most nights, don’t you need the gesture
of reaching for it, raising it high and swallowing down and savoring

the sweetness, or the scalding, knowing you’re going to give yourself to it
like a lover, whether or not he fills up the leaky balloon of your heart—

don’t you believe in trying to fill it, no matter what the odds,
don’t you believe it still might happen, aren’t you that kind of woman?

‘Tell Me’ – Kim Addonizio

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Dear September

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For my lover…

THE NUMBERS

How many nights have I lain here like this, feverish with plans,

with fears, with the last sentence someone spoke, still trying to finish

a conversation already over? How many nights were wasted

in not sleeping, how many in sleep–I don’t know

how many hungers there are, how much radiance or salt, how many times

the world breaks apart, disintegrates to nothing and starts up again

in the course of an ordinary hour. I don’t know how God can bear

seeing everything at once: the falling bodies, the monuments and burnings,

the lovers pacing the floors of how many locked hearts. I want to close

my eyes and find a quiet field in fog, a few sheep moving toward a fence.

I want to count them, I want them to end. I don’t want to wonder

how many people are sitting in restaurants about to close down,

which of them will wander the sidewalks all night

while the pies revolve in the refrigerated dark. How many days

are left of my life, how much does it matter if I manage to say

one true thing about it—how often have I tried, how often

failed and fallen into depression? The field is wet, each grassblade

gleaming with its own particularity, even here, so that I can’t help

asking again, the white sky filling with footprints, bricks,

with mutterings over rosaries, with hands that pass over flames

before covering the eyes. I’m tired, I want to rest now.

I want to kiss the body of my lover, the one mouth, the simple name

without a shadow. Let me go. How many prayers

are there tonight, how many of us must stay awake and listen?

– Kim Addonizio

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