J. Colman on August 21, 2009 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Technorati Tags: cunt, erotic poetry, love, naked, seeking
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J. Colman on April 11, 2009 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Technorati Tags: balls, heaven, spreading, wild
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behind my knee caps and under
my toes, my ancient back and the line
down my shins─slaving over a hot computer. How
is that different from the fifties when I walked
through Rockland Park to home-cooked
meals and then dashed off? All day,
I selected ingredients, added
spices, don’t ask for specifics, all I know is
I reached into the heart of my fridge, surprisingly
empty even on a Monday after a full weekend─I cut,
shredded, cooked, stirred, testing just a spoonful
for anything forgotten, not too late
to throw in like a stone cast sideways, one ripple
if lucky possibly two, imagery helps
on a hot cooking day. I burned my toes,
my soul aches, can’t even say
I created a banquet, that guests arrived
in limousines, the menu standard fare, clothes
still in the dryer, ready to fold. I hear words
as continuous sounds tumbling
round and round, I see love in the same
way, mildew in a dryer rotating
without heat. I’m very.
Very, very. So kiss me madly, letting me lie
here in the shade, nothing required, nothing
ventured and not a thing gained. I’ve been
cooking all day, no one complimented me on
inspired creations, asked for seconds, chatted
after desert. It’s been a long scorching
day at this writing stove and I have
to sleep. Won’t wait up for you.
Copyright Janice Colman 2009
J. Colman on March 07, 2009 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Technorati Tags: creativity, poetry, words, writing, writing life
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ther’s 2 things that i love
words an’ music babee
words an’ music
shee-it, i wish
i had legs from here
2 ther an’ a high big
ass i wish
i had tits to match an’
long black-wild
hair an’ a smile that culd make
th erth swing open an' honee
when i’m with u thats how
i feel, like i’m queen of th wurld, six
feet tall an’ when i press
my body against u, we’re
right in tyme, cunt t cock we
stand smack tight against
each othr an’ my hips
are swingin swoop de doo
raz a ma taz, soo ee
i wantya babee yada ya
ooee. dont ya know i
smile all smirk an’ snide-wide
in yur ear, flick my tongue
on th side of yur neck, i cross
th street of yur lips, right
an’ left side of th drivr–
u bee th high way, an
i’ll take a drive in th country, jst
movin along takin in th fresh air,
th corn, animls in ther pure postcard
posin. an’ i might take
sum allurin sideroads, discovr
a pristine lake evn i know
th wurd, undress walkin randumly tward
or in de-creed order bottom t top
or top t bottom, but th point
is by th time i get
to lappin yur shores, i can’t wait
to thro myself in but i don’t, i tease
my ownself - toes in, toes out, up
to th calves, arm bendin over,
nipple jst submerged, ass kissin
th sun–oh honey my cunt
yearns, buzzin right up
an down for u, an’ when
yur on fire u know th words
r tru, my leg hurts, knee hurts 2, lisn
i’m sayin i need
2 go for a ride, take me
fast take me slow, fingr on
my belly, mind on what’s below
fuck me, stay
any which way, i’m tired
of this weed, that music, i’m out
of fuck an’ i’m so in
luv with u make my mind sing an’ if
i’m outta tune, tone deaf, disruptin
evn th clouds, honey I luv
yur voice, yur th sexiest man alive, u got
th biggest pair of balls in town, whethr
yur up or down, th look th grandnss
of yur prick nestled
in yur orange hair so I know this
must be heaven, remembr
that summer night u drove me clear
outta town i kept askin
where u takin me, laughin and giggling
an rubbin yur thigh with u grinnin
all the while like i nevr seen
since and the stars like heavens blanket
lyin ovr us, i drank like i was in the desert,
i jst wanna tell u th stars are hidin
under these covers, but if u tiptoe an
lift th corner, th one on th bottom
at th right, u’ll see stars shinin so bright
evn ur blind eye will blink cause it’s all
about fuck, th stars th music on a saturday
night, trees swayin like ripe asses, wind’s breath
flarin under skirts and dresses, it’s all
fuck and cock and reversing gravity
to come and come and come.
J. Colman on February 03, 2009 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Technorati Tags: cock, come, cunt, lips, love, tits, tongue
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jack, i said, this is janice–i thought
shit such a sexy name jacknjanice
wanting to say jack c’mon over here, catch
the next flight, fuck me cause
i wanna fuck a literate
dude, i mean he doesn’t have to quote shit,
doesn’t have to whisper words in my ear, although
i’d love a breath of air and if he kisses
my neck i’ll, what the heck, can’t even
deep a cock anymore, fuckin out
of practice too lazy to write words like
he does this and then he doos dat
and then he’s slurpin on my cunt makin
all deese slurpin sloppin noises, he slaps
me on the ass you can hear WHAP! leavin
red fing r prints behind on my
be hind let me shove it behin ya,
I love your beehiny, whatya got baby show
me whatya got–i got what all th other
girls gots 2 tits.1 belly button, 1
cunt with 2 lips, 1 assholes, 2
cheeks, 1 mouth, 1 soul, maybe yours,
1 tongue and with yours makes 2,
1 cunt feelin all anxious and
zippy inside skin on tits raised
for strokin, 2 nipples
elongated from suckin, under
my man’s t-shirt on my bare
skin tonight with my cunt on
fire and sizzle spark fizz hum
hummin steady rhythm
stays on motor moanin,
fuck me jack just
find your place on top and
slam bam in, ram
and slam-bam ram, you won’t
get any complaints from me no
upright mission with holy
intentions not me, not this fuck (up)
with the wrecked-up hip and swollen
red beneath my left eye, fuck
me jack maybe I write lousy
poetry but i’m
a good fuck.
Copyright Janice Colman 2009
J. Colman on February 03, 2009 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Technorati Tags: ass, fresh, fuck, poetry, sexy, whisper
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the poet martin wrote: one more thing,
where I'm from cunt is
about the worst word imaginable.
you seem to use it tenderly and I'm not trying
to be funny. what's the deal
there?
the poet janice wrote: vagina sounds too clinical, pussy
purrs and generally I don't like felines. vagina’s a name
for a quim queen or a prairie cunt. to regulate, ground
for sneaking out and coming home past one–vagina!
you’re grounded, don’t you know how
to manage your parts? grounded
for a month, tucked away in a closet,
and the chick with the disgraced cunt walks wilted
wearing pink so all the kids know that
if they peek under her skirt and crinolines,
there’s an empty space or worse,
a prosthetic vagina. an adult ashamed
might choose vagina, a word
whose first letter hides near the end
of the alphabet, but whose last
is first, cause you just can’t get away
from a cunt, even saying the word aloud
has guts and bravado. Now,
I can call a man a prick,
"Oh you fucking prick!" while he fondly
boasts about its heated heists and women
waving fans hotly chat about this prick
and that. But a cunt, baby,
is a real living thing, raw sex
and honest. it’s a word
of endearment like I love you sweet
sweetest of cunts, didn’t another
great poet, not named martin–some dude
called Will, compose in a slash
that bit about goodnight sweet cunt and
parting being sweet sorrow, cause you know
it’s true. when a cunt and a prick love each other
there is nothing gonna separate them, not
age, not another woman. that eye on a prick’s head
is straight focused in a taut loving line
with a cunt clearly in front. So I wondered,
when southern martin penned, cunt’s a baaad
word, what the fuck's this man scribbling, does
his cock take offense and if so baby,
cunt cunt cunt million times, it’s about your
cock, martin, with its eye
at the tip, the first line of vision taught,
that tactile tingling line
between a cock and a cunt, something
magnetic, something about love, lust
aching, hope, dreams, something
about trembling, waiting, so
how’s it bad, martin from the south. shy cunts
leave a latch on the door cautiously
opening and if you peek gently in, you’ll catch
sight of a fucking flower bed, a hot house
with tropical plants, Oh this cunt
is a tropical plant shifting colours, so’s
you never quite know
the season or what the weather's
like. you gotta test the temperature, baby,
when you're loving up an authentic cunt, shit
what a word and such a generous welcoming,
taking off the latch, letting
you come right on in and giving
you a tour, sneaking you to the back room, peering
into secret cupboards with glowing treasures so tightly
packed that when you open the door, they fall,
honey baby mine, sinking
into your arms, down to your cock, there really
is a botanical garden inside and a waterfall
to sit under and recite
the poetry of a cunt.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
J. Colman on December 15, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Technorati Tags: Canadian poet, Colman, erotic poetry, erotica, poetry, sex, writer's blogs, writing
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Garth’s a tall wide-square box man. We often argue.
His mother is Pentecostal. He was slapped around and
chain whipped, I saw the raised lightning scar
from boiling water poured on his thigh, traced the tip
of my index finger on its raised worn smoothness
in our early days when I sucked on his frost-bitten
toes, his mother having cast him into
the Ontario winter small town cold. He ate
chewed food from garbage cans, his sisters spitting
leftovers on the floor, while his mother crashed
holy roller, eat or I’m going to whup you, slashing
the air with a bicycle chain locked in the
cutlery drawer for just such fanfare and now
Garth is a tall-wide square man with a quicksilver
mind and spreading balls. His hands are like butterflies
on my hips when he takes me from behind. Sh sh
he says and sings lullabies to ease the pain. I guess
I love him for his spreading balls and the way
he places his hands on my hips, for
his orange pubic hair and his festering
love. Sometimes I want to slam him out the door
that stands like a stage set without walls, yet
he holds me, his left arm like a fallen tree
blocking roads, traffic, ongoing life.
When he drapes his left arm across my back, I duck
underneath. It’s true he’s a tall wide barrier and nothing
gets across or through. You think you got me I say, but
inside I’m fuckin’ outta here. He knows
he can’t hold me cause I’m an ex
body-builder escape artist, can’t fathom
that rage barrels down and on its exit, stops
at an en-route highway cunt with its gift shop of
memories such as Garth’s balls overlapping
his redwood thighs, his hands on my hips while
he sings his gentle ass-fucking lullabies. I know
all his secrets at least quite a few, I’ve got
the balls of a tree-stomping lumber Jack
from the north with a poet’s southern heart
and an artist’s ego. But if
he surrounds me with his unyielding arm
one more time, I think this highway cunt’s gonna
open its doors and post a sign—everything’s
on sale. How can I stay all
pissed off at a man who sings lullabies with
his big hands lying gentle on me while
he’s ass fucking my soul.
Coyright Janice Colman 2008 (Excerpt from upcoming poetry collection - Headstrong Poetry)
Wheh Garth Ass-Fucks My Soul
J. Colman on December 13, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Technorati Tags: Canadain poet, creative non-fiction, erotic blog, erotic poetry, erotica, relationships, sex, wordslut, writer's blog
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when you kiss my
lips an’ fondle the 2
beneath, oh fuck me i smile
with my teeth
fuck me baby hard sendin
me to heaven
in yur back yard, layin
undr th stars i can’t re member
so well, oh jack jackie jack c’mon
honey i wantya so bad, th ferst
smart fuck i evr had. ya don’t have
ta sound high brow t me, cause
i like yur eye lashes, jst
slurp your hand down sayin
baaby mmm an’ kiss
my neck, i’m tired sweet
cock, goin t bed alone, jack come,
c’mon home.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
J. Colman on December 07, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Technorati Tags: Canadian poetry, Colman, erotic poet, erotic poetry, erotica, modern poetry, sex, wordslut
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jack, i said, this is janice–i thought
shit such a sexy name jacknjanice
wanting to say jack c’mon over here, catch
the next flight and c’mon over here,
fuck me cause i wanna fuck a literate
dude, i mean he doesn’t have to quote shit,
doesn’t have to whisper words in my ear, although
i’d love a breath of air and if he kisses
my neck i’ll, what the heck, can’t even
deep a cock anymore, fuckin out
of practice too lazy to write words like
he does this and then he doos dat
and then he’s slurpin on my cunt makin
all deese slurpin sloppin noises, he slaps
me on the ass you can hear WHAP! leavin
red fing r prints behind on my
be hind let me shove it behin ya,
I love your beehiny, whatya got baby show
me whatya got–i got what all th other
girls gots 2 tits.1 belly button, 1
cunt with 2 lips, 1 assholes, 2
cheeks, 1 mouth, 1 soul, maybe yours,
1 tongue and with yours makes 2,
1 cunt feelin all anxious and
zippy inside skin on tits raised
for strokin, 2 nipples
elongated from suckin, under
my man’s t-shirt, his on my bare
skin tonight with my cunt on fire
and sizzle spark fizz hum
hummin steady rhythm
stays on motor moanin,
fuck me jack just
find your place on top and
slam bam in, ram
and slam-bam ram, you won’t
get any complaints from me no
upright mission with holy
intentions not me, not this fuck (up)
with the wrecked-up hip and swollen
red beneath my left eye, fuck
me jack maybe I write lousy
poetry but i’m
a good fuck.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
J. Colman on December 06, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Technorati Tags: Canadian poet, erotic poetry. erotic writer, erotica, poet, poetry blog, poetry blog, sex, writer's blog
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If I go I am never coming back, never
again I will set my feet on this earth. I’m
a good boy, not a criminal, not Kema.
I have done nothing wrong.
Not for love? Kema?
Never. That’s it.
So you’re saying pride is more
important than love?
I’m sorry?
Alors. tu penses que, pride, fière, c’est
plus important que l’amour?
I’m a man, a real man, how do you say, not
macho, big tough. I want for you
and your girls, not to be, not to, tomber.
Je nes laisse pas jamais tombé.
Jamais. I will write everyday. I want to know
everything what happens. I need
to know. When I come back only you,
you are the first person
I want to see. No one. Only you
and your girls. I have something
now, plus de musique, I have
a girl. At Content Connection I say, I have
a beautiful girl. I am lucky. Every day
we write. You will not forget
Kema.
When Kema touches my heart at the back
of my throat, he laughs even though
I choke. Maybe it’s because
I have less practice. I’m alone
a lot. I want my hair to fall across
a man’s chest, his fingers
to rub across my lips. I want him to bruise
my lips with his kisses, sweep my hair across
his thighs, his chest his neck his
face his cock. I want to stand
at that scissor-sheered edge, to feel I would
travel to remote territories for this man Kema
from Martinique. That’s all
that I want. Is it asking too much?
Do you think?
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
J. Colman on November 28, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
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His body like a dense shadow broods
over her restless sleep, she shifts
and sighs, within the tide of her sleeping
breath, she worries whether
her heartbeat rivals his sullen resolve,
whether she can sing unscathed within
his seething mass, pulled toward such blazing
light, she has been warned about mirages, the aftermath
of longing defeated. What if
she dresses for rain with galoshes
and an old coat, hoping for eventual sun, perhaps
a sand dune. What if he is all
there is; she is forever thrashing through
his body always murky as sunless
skies prevail. What if she
wanders forever searching upon
disconnected lines and love
taunts grotesquely, her heart
remains weary, she forgets
how daylight feels, its colors
caressing, what love felt like, how
a catch in her throat could steal
her breath away. What if
she grows roots, water flowing darkly
through, and although you might think
she has been replenished, the truth
is that water seeping so far below the earth—
once she cultivated a plant quite alive,
lush even though times were not. Every morning
with great care she watered
the shrub with its random
white bulbs, believing they might
grow old together except
the excess of fluids eventually
drowned the plant which had reminded
her of the forests of Rousseau. She feels
a kinship toward the plant with her daily ritual
of tears and wonders about clichés, the romance
and inevitable truth within, she shifts
aside one sleeve and then another, always
another. He speaks of fallen angels, while
all she sees is the artful dodger with wings
and a cape.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
The Forests of Rousseau
J. Colman on November 27, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
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In the morning my heart
breathless beneath the pressed
pillow beside me, eyes
shoved between my big toe and
the next or hiding under my grandmother's
hand-me-down bunion, hands
squarely folded under
a Zeller's white quilt that could
crush any soul except mine, "Hurry hurry " as
pieces grumble, shift and slide, while
my cunt stark out refuses to budge, taking
a non-violent stance - you have to speak
kindly to a cunt lest it snap
open and devour, so I say
please, offer promises of forbidden
delight, possibly Turkish; it lifts
one eyelid and I know I'm on the right
track. A cunt can be lonesome, withdrawn, although
she gets out daily and I translate the world in terms
she can understand so in that dank dark
place where she lives, hope in the form of light
might filter in. A cunt needs
rambling conversation, requires water, some
form of (any) love allowing
it to lay down winter roots and shoot
up in the spring, this thirsty cunt cut down
before winter while still
eager to converse with the sun, I worry
even when all my parts finally
cooperate as I sit sipping
homemade coffee brew, and my heart
swoops down to my cunt, setting down
with her a speck, gently swinging on this late
autumn veranda before which
body parts strut to work. Sometimes
a man smiles or waves, but all the while
I am thinking a cunt without
a heart might be more at peace.
Copyright Janice Colman 2008
Be Kind to Your Fair Feathered Friend -- whole poem
Be Kind to your Fair, Feathered Friend
J. Colman on November 14, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
Technorati Tags: Colman, cunt, erotic poetry, love, sex, Wordslut
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the poet martin wrote: one more thing,
where I'm from cunt is
about the worst word imaginable. you
seem to use it tenderly and I'm not
trying to be funny. what's
the deal there?
the poet janice wrote: vagina sounds
too clinical, pussy purrs and generally
I don't like felines. vagina’s a name
for a quim queen or a prairie cunt. to regulate, ground
for sneaking out and coming home past one–vagina!
you’re grounded, don’t you know how
to manage your parts? grounded
for a month, tucked away in a closet,
and the chick with the disgraced cunt walks
wilted wearing pink so all the kids know
if they peek under her skirt and
crinolines, there’s an empty space or worse,
a prosthetic vagina. an adult ashamed
might choose vagina, a word
whose first letter hides near the end
of the alphabet, but whose last
is first, cause you just can’t get away
from a cunt, even saying the word aloud
has guts and bravado. Now,
I can call a man a prick,
"Oh you fucking prick!" while he fondly
boasts about its heated heists and women
waving fans hotly chat about this prick
and that. But a cunt, baby,
is a real living thing, raw sex
and honest. it’s a word
of endearment like I love you sweet
sweetest of cunts, didn’t another
great poet, not named martin–some dude
called Will, compose in a slash
that bit about goodnight sweet cunt and
parting being sweet sorrow, cause you know
it’s true. when a cunt and a prick love each other
there is nothing gonna separate them, not
age, not another woman. that
eye on a prick’s head straight focused
in a taut loving line with a cunt clearly
in front. So I wondered, when
southern martin penned, cunt’s a baaad
word, what the fuck's this man scribbling, does
his cock take offense and if so baby,
cunt cunt cunt million times, it’s about your
cock, martin, with its eye
at the tip, the first line of vision taught,
that tactile tingling line
between a cock and a cunt, something
magnetic, something about love, lust
aching, hope, dreams, something
about trembling, waiting, so
how’s it bad, martin from the south. shy cunts
leave a latch on the door cautiously
opening and if you peek gently in, you’ll catch
sight of a fucking flower bed, a hot house
with tropical plants, Oh this cunt
is a tropical plant shifting colours, so’s
you never quite know
the season or what the weather's
like. you gotta test the temperature, baby,
when you're loving up an authentic cunt, shit
what a word and such a generous welcoming,
taking off the latch, letting
you come right on in and giving
you a tour, sneaking you to the back room, peering
into secret cupboards with glowing treasures so tightly
packed that when you open the door, they fall,
honey baby mine, sinking
into your arms, down to your cock, there really
is a botanical garden inside and a waterfall
to sit under and recite
the poetry of a cunt.
Copyright Colman 2008
J. Colman on October 30, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
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In my room, a hight-pitched hum drones
in my left blocked ear, I can’t hear
my heart beat when Caroline talks
to herself, to me, to no one
in particular, but this silver pen slides
black ink muting a computer's deep
sleep chanting, pen on paper shines
even when I feel dull inside, wanting
a man, his arms, a French embrace, a wisp
of a summer sigh, something
shared, but all the men
have gone home or to someone
else’s home or left
the country
or lied
and I am left gliding
on paper with open sounds and yearning vowels
as my daughter walks right, left. forward,
talking in diagonals.
Copyright Colman 2008
In My Room
J. Colman on October 30, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
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I have this poetry collection I'm editing. This morning I was in a foul mood. I was editing for a four-hundred-and-twenty-pound finanacial wizard who had just emailed me. He says he's mostly muscle, but I know from where his hands sit on his stomach, that there's other stuff sifting around inside him. Maybe it's just his meanness piling up.
Last night I edited his work until my eyes edged out of their sockets with a clear mind to head toward my grandmother's sofa under my living room picture window. Still, I kept editing. This morning I received an email: "This is still loaded with obvious errors. I’m asking again that you not do these edits when you are tired." I reread my edit. Maybe I'd still change one or two sentences, but fuck (and I have to write FUCK although Steve the librarian from Baltimore says he's more selective in his verbal fuck celebrations), grammar and content were without fault. See what the financial man, whose name might be Garth, was pissed off about in his cold unappreciative way was I changed his words! His darlings! The man is turning into a fucking writer, a prima donna in drag.
So I checked out my unpublished poetry collection. Reading my own sex bits eases my mind. I still love editing, and even though I haven't had any in a while, I still adore sex. I like the texture of it. Then I did some research and it seems that sex writing is becoming mainstream. Damn. Gotta get the work out. Fuck fast and hard.
Here's a poem from the collection. An ancient one, true, but refurbished.
He struck her on the left breast, she
opened her legs leering
with her cunt. Cradling
his balls in her hand, she bit
him hard
on the neck
where are you headed, she
asked as he barreled his
way up her ass. To Ireland to shoot
my load he answered, she laughed
and scratched his right thigh, waving
her ass to the sky. He snarled
pumped harder, zipping
out of the room and reappearing
with a black kimono flapping
around him, I’ll try for the Orient
instead. Oh fuck, she said, as he plunged
into her cunt. As long as he was
in her he would never commit
seppuku, so he pumped away through
the night and all the next day and when
he was tired, needing a reprieve, to take
a piss, wolf down a pizza, he couldn’t
get out. So he remains humping
to this day, getting fat eating pizza, French
fries and MacDonald’s, pissing
without a care and who knows what
else while locked in her cunt, pumping
away. Jesus Christ what a bastard, locked
in a cunt, and humping eternally away.
Copyright Colman 2008
J. Colman on October 28, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
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A librarian from Baltimore sent
me news about John the Plumber or
was it Jack, seems he’s not
really a plumber, did you see how
McCain’s right cheek juts
out like a wrecked ship or
like a pirate har har
did I tell you that even the stars
are sleeping and yet I tap,
a woman dressed in a black
wool turtleneck and unbuckled
jeans worrying about outcomes while
Joe and the librarian sleep.
While the Librarian Sleeps
J. Colman on October 17, 2008 in Headstrong Poetry | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)
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