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Month: August 2011

Wounds That Never Heal

Wounds That Never Heal

Narcissus, by Caravaggio. 1596
Narcissus, by Caravaggio. 1596




The world is turning inward
In the most bizarre of ways
— Politically


The most communal and
The most public
And connected

Of all pursuits

Is beset
By those who want
Their toys back

Because in their youth
In the sandbox of their dreams
They were asked to share them
With others

And now that they have grown
They can spin whole philosophies
Whole rationales

They can dress their most selfish
Mine! mine! mine!
In comfortably virtuous clothes
By citing government abuses

And Randian clichés

But all they really want
The thing that drives them onward
And inward
Is that sandbox again

With their own toys back
And no one there to tell them
Let others share in your joy

Let others have a turn


— by Douglas Pinson


Across the Universe

Across the Universe

Road With Cypress and Star, 1890. By Vincent Van Gogh


Blue Shift


It’s not just that stars
Are yellow photographs
Left for Kafka to enfable

It’s not just that stars
Cover histories and make
Puppets for Rilke

They really do light our nights
Like flash bulbs in Arabia
A Mosque open skyward

A mirage of water
To die for

Wicked games above us
These stars fall on Rimbaud
And replace his guns

His Abyssinnia

With teenaged boats
And lapping
Cresting waves

Like night cafés
In Arles for Vincent

For McLean


— by Douglas Pinson


The Long Waves

The Long Waves

Miranda — The Tempest. By John William Waterhouse. 1916


Divisions of Earth and Sea


The night’s edge
As buffer between us —
The flame of the moon

On gray starry waves

Compress eras like
A bride a bridge
For two philosophies

Two conceptions of roles
And what is veritas

You on the staccato shore
Me on the drawn out omen’s cliff
As someone who parallels

And morphs

Sings hosannas obliquely
Before and after
The jazz of laughing crises

I must

Find a way
To lift three curtains
And jail the drive to fall

It matters not if you’ve moved on
It makes no difference if you’ve run away
My fiction sells me fate

For a pence
And fate removes the sting and the nail

How long before you look
At the one who dares with you
Dares all like an assassin

Without weapons

How much longer will the fiction
Of our
Caustic divorce

Prevent the resurrection?… |To be Continued “The Long Waves”

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