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Showing posts from March, 2010

Therapy

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therapy by Mick Tomlinson while I type this poem a president speaks to his troops behind me on the TV wearing the same bomber jacket the president before him wore, saying the same damn things to the same ol' ears about the same damn guns and the same ol' wars. he makes promises he can't keep, while I make another vodka tonic that I intend to drink. and to think, I'm the one considering therapy.

Aeolist

aeolist by Mick Tomlinson my arm is nothing more than an extension of my soul, stretched parabola forming a straight line towards heaven. I stand on my soapbox with a sermon dangling from my lips, this tired old street corner this tired old man giving the world what it wants. I am enlisted. I am the bubble hidden deep inside the bone. I am the beekeeper creating a brand new colony, stung by his own pride. here, brother, listen: walk with me while I tell you about the accubation of life and all of it's little lovers, those tiny frail things so easily forgotten. my tongue is nothing more than an extension of my mind, soft, flattened, delightful attracted to flavor. a million spiders bred a million more, and still their webs spread empty between the trees. this is the way God works. earthquakes, tsunamis, libraries engulfed in flames, over-dosed artists, a genius child sold into slavery. we all become what we already are: gentle creatures abacinate