cement mixer me

cement mixer me

I do not sleep, night after night.

I stomp my snock-wall cranium, leave bloody bootprints and bone bruises.

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I will not survive the end of this poem

I will not survive the end of this poem
Stop writing as if you'll survive, be discovered, and understood.Don't pretend you have timeto not mean every word. Mean it. Every word. Or else make spreadsheets. Precious, clever lines won’t sound better later,or accrue in value, or change to gold from lead. Write like the dead. Syllable your last beat. You will not make it to the end of the page.You're already gone. What do you say, for your self?
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clitta-clat king of the bucket

clitta-clat king of the bucket
I smell crawdad in mud-glow, fish-tang from a hidey-hole; zinc-y water-rot aroma, stink of joy to a barefoot boy, slipfinger boy in wet dungarees. Grab a blue shell, wave a snip-claw, mechanical claw, bend-back claw, to trim a trophy off curly thumb— but giddy drop and he becomes the clitta-clat king of the bucket.
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psilocybin syllable

psilocybin syllable
goodbye to weight within; i am the helium beast, i rise, ugly as sin, clean as nimbus, to the mothering sky. i saw every color. i felt you tremble. how true my heart was, long ago, how reliable my tongue, before i knew bitter. all done, o best beloveds! my gifts, the psyilocybin syllable, and the blooded, holy words of sorrow, are delivered. the boy prospered, bless the skin of his teeth, and the propaganda of love, and the slow fuse of truth. light wants in, after all. I am so sorry. i stayed as long as i could. as long as it took. i rise, ugly as sin, clean as nimbus, to the mothering sky.
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goat costume

goat costume
tear me out    ruckety-luck send the children away    sleep, sleepgive up on me    slice, slice I'm bad, I'm wrong    always, alwaysnothing holds me     gone, gone I’m a flame, in glass    fraud, fraudthere is a truth    liar, liar I gave up long ago:    damn, damn I wanted more    slickety-trickthe bad, the wrong     fade and fade hope will die    die and dieand horror, grief    always, alwaysbe good as your word    and give, givebe better than me    do more, morethe fail, and lie    and lie and liewill not undo me    not me, meI stayed my hand    I stayed, stayedsoft as a peach    I hold, holdI count for something    six, fiveI measure up    four, threenot infinitesimal    two, one
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feel everything

feel everything

can’t sleep. i wear a horseshoe crab hat. brain is stubble field. hand gropes upward in a dark not dark enough.

because

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i rise

i rise

Nana, in the kitchen, her glasses loose on their string, pours Uncle Sam cereal into her measuring cup; shakes, puts a little more. I close my eyes; I hear:

My finger-scratch on chalky page.

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a rustling arc of red

a rustling arc of red

We are birds in the canopy. We hear each other sing, we squabble, we pine for each other, and fly from place to place.

Carouse the high room of love, work the day for worms. Regular as dirt. We finish under the canopy, unnamed, indistinguishable from brown stems and dead branches. And gone, all gone.

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fine art prints
writing by Greg Correll