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Post by Nick Harris on May 14, 2010 20:27:45 GMT -5
The desert is frightened. Its red skin burns and its flesh heaves in anguish over the death of its inhabitants. Its empty palms ascend slowly beseeching the aqueous sky. At night it dreams of an old love that flowed filling the arroyos and nursing the cougar. He chased the phantom over the slick rock and ate his brain from the back of his scull. At night scorpions eat each other and generators growl in campgrounds as white plump campers nurse their wounds. They suck the night air in testing it for danger before returning to aluminum cocoons. I asked the pinion pine how old he was and he said he was just a child and then smiled ancient skin crinkling. I asked him if he feared death and he said, yes - the death of hope. What do you hope for? I asked and he said eternal life. So you do fear death, I said and he said, yes. Night in the desert is cold and stars fill the sky with sorrow. Their lack of curiosity is disturbing.
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Post by leecrowell on May 20, 2010 21:50:33 GMT -5
i like this one Nick your first hand descriptions of a desert are right on
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Post by Dunstan Attard on May 21, 2010 9:45:28 GMT -5
Nick, these kind of your poems thrill me because they can carry me instantly to worlds apart as if they existed side by side in my village streets...and still a logic so clear and powerful not to mention a tail end that unfolds new layers of thought that stays in a kind of simple harmony...this is the stuff that makes a wonderful kind of poetry... a kind of intellectual gregory corso whoes poetry i love dearly...
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