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from There Must Be A Cure For This Déjà Vu
There must be a cure for this déjà vu
the things I think I thought of you
my sweetheart the sketchy drunk
acting like an aging punk
Low sparks and high-heeled boys
tenuous grace and fleeting poise
family man of the hour
drowning in a sudden shower
Little king of dirty water
sleeping with a dead man’s daughter
pretty songs for blue guitars
hollow bodies float like stars
from Callahan Had His Eleanor
Callahan had his Eleanor
as naked as she was before
Carver had his lovely Tess
and mine is some forever yes
An artist with pragmatic skin
her armor thick as mine is thin
a lioness in running shoes
protector of our sun-drenched blues
The eye of my particular storm
nine feet below I watch her form
water makes her weightless and free
turning the curves of infinity
from “Even Famous Poets Aren’t Famous”
“Even famous poets aren’t famous”
here we are now, entertain us
quarter-sized fish in a dime-round pond
as satisfied as the just been conned
Like tattoo face in the world of eyes
conspicuous despite the disguise
lemon in a dandelion field
texture betrays the marginal field
Loman says find yourself by thirty-four
time to claim what you abhor
no escape plan, no hidden clause
no sudden pleas, no unwritten laws
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