pilgrimA Poem by h d e rushinfor Stan.I am mindful of the fact that I've done so very little for ecology. Oh yeah, I've loved the obligatory orphaned turtle. Fed the sparrows dispersed. And to this the lines have blurred from headstone to limb so often, I cannot have sucked the n*****s of the dark moons adoration. Not enough. I do have a map I've drawn from the dust of Quitman, Georgia, scabbed over like sheets of grass and I still can't stand you if you come to close to my face. I don't know where your face has been. In the cold? At the art institute catching the butterflies of Cezanne? Quite often, the firelogs clogs the senses. The rich, reds of daylight. It's the way we live in pain, sweat, heartache. The Republicans. Coming back from Canada the draft dodgers hid their faces, wore heavy coats in summer and into the daylight, forgot the ones who died on jungle floors or those who were whisked away in Huey's only to die on jungle floors full of morphine. My cousins husband, the one who had an artery blocked like the sieges of Tet, died on his lawn looking at a tender sky. Came back from war so totally fucked up, zigzagging across the neighbors lawns, groping at the underside of my cousins belly for the Lebenstraum of open pastures: we rarely spoke about love at all. Just the parts that keeps him up in the trees in 2013, alive but camouflage and after 43 years still taking flack. He would show me the hole in his throat where he says, all his tarnished imagination has spilled out. © 2015 h d e rushinReviews
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3 Reviews Added on January 10, 2015 Last Updated on February 3, 2015 |

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