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SenescenceBefore the rain,
all the leaves are brown.
Here's to green memories -
but the tree that loves its leaves
will never know the art of aging.
You found love in our yellow room,
but winter's holding my hand;
it won't be long.
When somebody says your name for the last time,
they gently take your life.
I should write this down.holy shit I should write this down -
the bad advice kills me;
like self publish WAY before they're ready.
how can we make it better?
you don't write to get a DD;
you write something awesome and then get a DD because you're there.
you don't pay to be published.
publishing isn't the end all be all.
we're ready for you.
He doesn't write poetry anymore.He doesn’t write poetry anymore,
even if he still collects it, reads it, saves it, treasures
faded verses from his wife the way connoisseurs
savor vinyl over metallic rainbows on disc.
I don’t mind not knowing, but I can’t stand not asking.
The record needle hits the groove wrong;
he stumbles over words that aren’t there,
rummaging for an answer he doesn’t really have.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore
and his confusion is strangely endearing.
But there’s a lyricism to his words that I love,
poetic lines inserted between the daily grind
of character names and who said what;
voiceless boys in white and draymen carting the dead to saltwater lakes,
elegiac undertones that haunt historians and forlorn painters.
He doesn’t write poetry anymore –
except when he does.
More Conversations With Doci.
“Have you heard any of the scripts on the radio yet?”
“You keep asking me this Doc. I think you’re getting Alzheimer’s. I don’t listen to the radio, remember? And when I do, it’s the classic rock station.”
“I would assume, if one is writing something to be on the radio, that one would start listening to the radio.”
“I don’t think the college station broadcasts all the way to Benton anyway. Besides, I’ve already heard it.”
“You know, Warren Zevon - he did Werewolves of London, you know that song?”
“Classic rock station, remember?”
“I’m surprised you know it. That’s an old song.”
“94.1 plays it all the time. . . . How old is it exactly?”
“Yeah, yeah, make me feel old."
“And he’s been very smug about being proved right about my project.”
EulogiesHe was always checking his broken pocketwatch – like, maybe one day he would click the case open and it would be working again, like magic. I don’t think I would have been surprised. He brought such a sense of life with him wherever he went. And maybe that’s why it was a shock when he died.
Their tabby cat – I wonder what’s going to happen to him. It was his wife’s cat really, but, he couldn’t get rid of it – couldn’t deal with being entirely alone – after she died, even if he was always more of a dog person. That cat would sit at my feet whenever I was over for dinner and he always gave me hell for encouraging it with scraps but it made his wife laugh.
It’s odd really. I lived in the same complex, the same floor, for two years before ever meeting him. He showed me how to fix the brass plate that fell off every time I shut the door too hard.
I always liked him really, even before I got to know him all that well. He had t
Glory-Be Bits IVI hate cigarettes, but I really like the idea of them. I bought a pack of them just to say that I had.
Find me in a red
diner booth, hiding
behind laminated menus.
I've kept everything that I want to keep.
A flash of gold
among the blue.
Ninety-nine snippets, but I haven't won.
He got new shoes; now I have to update all my poems.
Love is a disaster
victim, crushed and
buried by earthquakes.
I bought an hourglass, but I still don't know the time.
You threw me away
like rice grains at a wedding.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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