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Tall Grey Men

Tall grey men with knobby knees
Their cultures on their backs
One has eyes and the other sees
But neither one keeps track

Past the bridges and knotted hills
Through tree lines, streets and snow
One must eat so the other kills
And farther on they go

Draw from streams a taste of life
That cascades over stones
Nourishment for withered minds
And rest for broken bones

Everyday the sun beats down
And vultures peck at worms
Astral planes and settled towns
Wait 'round every turn

Feel the way with tethered feet
Outstretched hands find light
Cobbler's stones on sunlit streets
With manmade lamps at night

Epic is their circumstance
Their travels take such time
Gone the days when peasants danced
And actors spoke in rhyme

Hopeful for a place like home
A kiss to bid them in
Long years since their cause was known
The nature of their sin.


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It takes only a streetlight
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The Day My Brother Flew

The day my brother flew,
I prayed for the last time;
Asked for his acceptance,
A chance to say goodbye.
Stood inside the chapel,
Whispered through the motions,
Knowing in my chest
I did not believe.
Months gone from that day,
I stood inside a basement,
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Chainlink in my eyes.
A host of white lights came,
Gathered right beside me,
Waited till I turned,
Slowly sank away.
I never told my folks.
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I don't know what I saw,
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The day my brother flew,
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He lived and enjoyed life.
I don’t even like it.
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This Is How They Talk

There's another part, always,
that doesn't want to go,
a shape more practiced
than my humble sincerities,
my tilted resolutions.

I forget to relax my knees,
That I should soften my jaw,
take lessons from the glass,
from the sidelong blurs,
and oblong silhouettes;

take in the everyday words
That clatter around my body.
I should brush against these threads,
learn their girth and texture.

This is how they move,
in great thrusts, driven
by asteroids and thunder.

This is how they talk,
in echos and gasps,
looking right at you.