Poetry Blog by elPintor

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elPintor on sexism (Sun, 25 Nov 2018 12:49 am)

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mothers aren't always kind--


they're sometimes passive-aggressive oppressors

thrusting tiny pin-pricks right into the quick

with precision and calculated malign...


trust me, mother knows

just the spot to best get to you


to fold you down

just like a carry-along

bagged tent...

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binary argumentation
splits us into deconstructed
scattered halves

scars of absence
become calling cards

for Andalusia

for Hiroshima

for Natives awakened from dreams speaking dead languages

--we often recognize who we are
by what we remain without...

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ghost (life on the outside)

..set it off like a funeral pyre,

intoxicated on ether like fumes of gasoline


--I heard it said

that's what to do

once it's done

until it's dead...


and everyday, still,

I watch as you arrive back home


clutching a brown paper sack

before an opened door


the blinding bright specter

inside, of life left behind


standing momentarily picturesqu...

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red sun

forget this day

this disappointment--

bathe it fretlessly in moonlight's subtle shades

  of black and white

until the morning no longer remembers

  the hole in the dark it pierced

    into the day before

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bodies in free fall

blow me a kiss

as we converge...


cancelling all earth's gravity,

all that touches me is the wave

of your body falling ever closer to mine,


forever separated by infinitely smaller increments

of universal space and time.




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unbroken (a timeline in prepositions)

return to that place?  I'll return only

to find what was once lost and

to fix this broken part of me

--that which was broken

to make what never was and

to pull down shade screens formed

to blind the penitent to newly ordered crimes--

and to forever fix this rift between the fixers and I.

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portfolio--modern treatise/old idea

the fruit of youth and foolishness is exceedingly bitter...

through cloudbursts and sunspots

come endless interruptions of capacity--

I would say they are not my doing

because I dared never to play god

yet I've come to believe I somehow planted

the seeds of their beginnings

while helplessly meting the wages of my labors

to the Fates before whom even the gods become even...

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To The IED Once Strapped Outside My Chest,

I am still wrapped around
and bound to you in flesh

and the shrapnel you set free
is now, in effect, only pieces of me

unwound in multiplicity to clothe the four winds
in cipher and logic dressed down as zeros and ones.

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bodies in orbit

..learning to feed on freedom from so much friction again,

I can feel everything starting to slip away already--

I begin to remember that

the first step toward independence

from the mother planet is the hardest

because I've done this before

because even this whiff of moondust is becoming familiar

because, in perspective, this is only really another small step for man...

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a letter to my son--for now...

I never meant when I came here

for my feet to be set into concrete--

I hope that you will soon come to understand what that means.

I hope that you will be always aware that

when you come to what seems an end

the higher man within your heart demands you

muster whatever means of change you can

to move the world as it sits upon your shoulders

if only to find the relief of a sh...

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upon pondering some of the various conditions which might be judged as normal

During a few days of every year,

the grounds of certain rural agricultural lands

are fertilized with pig manure which, in turn,

fills the air with an ungodly stench

but to which swarms of flies are drawn.


The shit is cheap because

there's no shortage of demand for pork

and the pigs are cheap because they can subsist

on damn near anything organic,


including thei...

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hiding places (discernment)

In the quiet I listen to some

whispered words you've spoke


and some you never have--


it's like putting my ear to a conch

and hearing all the silence we protect


being lifted from concealment by a noisy sea.

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disconnect (regenesis in infrared)

In daylight, the changing topography

of the plane remains undisclosed


by the spreading smog and mist

and the vacuous diversions of networks

and people, like marching ants performing

misinformation spectacles;


but under cover of night,

lighted cynosure like neural explosions glow

revealing myriad isolated battles

that rage amber and red against the shadows...

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(immediacy imminence and urgency) the currency of infraction


is a purchaser of sharpened teeth

and a tongue that should, by now, be relieved

of all extraneous niceties...


Forgive me, because I know you know the lies

and strong truths and distillations that

we forsake through the unspoken understanding


that tastes so much like sugary unpalatable placation

of l...

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Like pitied ships

we are afloat in perilous breaking waters

of which not one of us will see the coast

while silence lays heavy on the land

like a dead man's cloak...


Some few cry through to us like beacons

to forbid the wake of further disaster--

and, truly, no ship does shore to rock

for fear of fading light's travail;


Some strong of us will fail for silence...

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You bring words, like light

then open your mouth to the dark--

I see sounds at midnight

like synaesthetic flashes

wash the vanished world in color...

swimming against the encircling black,

my vision becomes ultraviolet blue.

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I am the orphaned girl-child

hiding inside the stone-scarred earth

that trembles like disaster

at my mother's howling

because peace in my father's house

has been traded for Jesus and

a people who kill for greed and pleasure...

I am the Sword of Damocles--

yes, now, I am the rite

and the passage from night to dawn.

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on entering decade three as a divorcee--good heavens, not this again...

"You know, Abi, Honey, you've always been so intense--maybe you should try being more friendly and open to meeting new people."

Despite my best efforts to deny that her comments have any effect on me, I can already feel myself regressing, suppressing the urge to flick a pea across the table as she turns to my father while he's offering a critique on the baked chicken breast.

"Mom, do you thi...

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year of the jackal

Persephone, darling child

do not embrace the cold

as though it were your only home--


do not allow the earth to swallow

the burgeoning seed that dwells sleeping.


Winter is run amok and the suckling

is dying, unidentifiable

like food for jackals.


But, surely, Revolution will not forever prevent

the turn of another Age for the sake

of forbearance and lovin...

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Page C3 Headlines

Japanese Elvis Impersonators

Who Never Knew The King Wore
Blue Suede Shoes

City Cops Telling Us
To Keep Our Heads Down

There's Nothing Here To See

And Drug Mules Once Traveling
Now Dressed For Death
In Zippered Black Plastic Bags

All Briefly Open Our Eyes To What Once
We Were Blind...

Thru Busy NYC Traffic
We Drifted Sleepily

As The Bremen Town
Musicians Came To Us Sing...

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Even through stillness

like a wall between us


I felt the rhythmic

heaving of your body,


and like my first born

I knew your cry...


How many sounds

from the crying child?


I counted five:






and one I had yet to come to know...

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things that become me

Like loneliness and

these fingerless gloves

that protect what I feel

from the cold,


and the single earring piercing

thin, once overgrown skin--


it's only a hole newly re-opened


by the marriage of old

with new money


an unholy matrimony

like term-life


cheap and undersold.

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I am not one who believes in universal love--an epitaph

let's say goodnight

'cause that's all there is...


we aimlessly piss love away

in sweeping floods


and all the words we speak

so freely


really do


burst like empty bubbles

under pressure--


all we know of one another

are the living pieces carried helpless within the ether


to their final destinations

somewhere between oblivion and infamy...

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I sat

my cotton skirt damp in the dew on the grass

watching the sun rise

remembering the shape of you


remembering my fingertips grazing

the cool of your skin


and remembered the days before I knew the

weight of your tears


and trembled

slipping forward along with the horizon.

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I am blowing kisses to the wind

because my love has filled his pockets

with pennies from strangers and Death...


No longer does morning greet me,

but only turns a lonesome cheek that knows

neither my lips' whispers nor surprise


and prepares the daylight for a knife

warmed to cut by the fury of desire

and whet by the tears of its shame.

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subjugation (the lesser of two evils)

An angel skidding in

between outstretched wings


drags behind his fantail

and sparks the flames--


the air is sheared and feet

dig deep into the turning earth


to send forth tremors

and stir from sleep

both the restless

and the peaceful...


We know these things:


there are N many revolutions

in the latest satellite year


and Z is the m...

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40-night bender

Just a single ray

breaks through the

orange-blocker gray


and the secret fear

again creeps in


and says it may soon

stop raining in your head--


stop this ceaseless erasure


and dig yourself in


so that the drowning shoots

may soon emerge...


or find yourself new old ground

on which to begin



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stampede (a view to the hill)

my eardrums

pulse and thrum

with a silent song

of spilled blood


and for this


I have felt the lion

tear at my womb--


the animal seeks escape

from the solemn fires raging

for Nanking and Wounded Knee


and for the final pleas

of Polish children mouthing "Mama",


a stab in their hearts from nurses

of a covetous foreign tongue...


I h...

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I know what awaits

the homecoming of a heart

turned almost to dust

by the desert sun…


40 days

laid bare by need


reflecting the light of silence


40 days

prepared for the cannibal feast


forsaking the emptiness of the word


the question




the cup of my tears



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I want to be


the work at home voyeur


I want to pilfer through your things

while you tell me what they mean


I want to hear the inflection in your tone

as you tell me why I picked them and why I should leave them alone


and I want to watch the look on your face

as I refuse to replace the refuge I've taken from you


in silence

from far away


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editor at large

incongruent and awkward

always fit well, one with the other


but each make beggars choosers

in this ridiculous world that hides

inside the disguise of normality--


in this world, the jester is made king


and, though supplicants

only sing his song in mock


he remains fixed and frozen

to the throne waiting

for what might be sung next.

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having sprung forth in relative dark


the yearling becomes entangled

with obstacles to the light--


seeking shadows as if they were doors,


misshapen and scrape-scarred limbs

continue to rake all manner of rock and thorn


only to trace negatives of the sun.

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INCOMING...onlookers regrouping at the summit

some plot unforeseen

has left them hanging--


breathless at the peripety

but choking by the open-ending,


they regret they could not

properly assess their footing


before the rope

seized their rubbernecks.

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floating far away escaping

the safety of gravity


no lines drawn upon

my landscape I'm forsaking

the frames of division


yet time has already

pricked its scribbles its

tattoos into my skin


the imprint stamped

within is the anchor


the tie that keeps me tethered

like an aimless wanderer ejected

to this lonesome place

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frostbite (maybe come next spring)

i miss

not feeling like the end is near--


i miss the fearlessness

and the lust for living


i miss a life with no excuses.


i miss not drinking myself to sleep

and sleeping without dreaming.


i miss the feeling in my fingers

since I threw my fist

through the window pane...


most of all, i miss the feeling that loneliness won't kill me

and the ...

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bodies in motion, bodies at rest (repression and repose)

lethargy and oblivion swallow word and thought

and abate to futility all intention and undertaking


arresting the form into a state of abeyance--


Atlas yet upholds the weight of the heavens

and serfs of the tzar are still hauling the mud


from the swamps of Saint Petersburg

load by load, within their tattered shirts,


but the gravity of the world is still ever...

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there is industry more than art
stamped into my veins

and ardor more than ladylike malaise

that forgives the feminine spark
her lonesome flame--

because my intensity rarely agrees
with gender identity

my rough hands manage to shake free
my world of all pretense

and falsehood of natural propensity.

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human anatomy

well-developed defense mechanisms
aren't easily dismantled

and tools of survival
readily become weapons to crush--

as blood is compelled to surge
only to choke

the animal is driven to seek life
in spite of its limb.

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