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He Thinks By FireCastlesHe Thinks By Fire10 years ago in Free Verse
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Set the scene in Vienna, Rome
Tripoli - countries in cities.
Restaurants in the shade.
Men in chairs
With white straw hats, the sun curve
Of the day, and buzzing of motors on
Family visits an old man.
A hearty dinner, the sun a shine on the glass.
She says tell
Like you used to.
The boys poke the ground,
Fiddle with the earth,
Before he sighs.
I sign in blood.
A column splits, spoken
Ramparts, assailed corridors.
Degraded anarchs in the veins.
I hear Fire.
Random chaos in
The voi- voi- Void.
And my entry read:
'Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!'
Abandon all hope, ye who enter!
The stun is complete. Boys caught moving
Sag down and shake.
She asks why? How?
And he repeats, numbly:
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.
MotherMother9 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms
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Mother wakes at five thirty in the morning
even Sundays, though the newspaper hasn't been delivered
to me sitting at the top of the stairs.
She squints at me with Hitchcock eyes,
says that my bathwater is turning light gray, it's time to get in.
Sundays, we go to church, which isn't-just-a-social-thing-young-lady.
I'm here because I would neverever ask for anything else
if she bought me a dog.
It dawns, and her voice percolates my future, drip
drip drip, we say Scholarship.
I have a hard time knowing her
without her glasses
and her makeup in its technicolor glory.
She drives me to school every day, to save on parking.
Trucks and equinoxes blow past us as I stare out the window,
drawing pictures in the condensation with my thumb.
She says did you know that Beethoven
never saw the sea? Later we should go to the beach,
she'll show me a picture of a furtive flute of a girl
in a poodleskirt and a yellow-spattered room.
We can walk up and down the sand together
The Writer: ForewordThe Writer: Foreword10 years ago in Philosophy & Perspectives
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I was first aware of the peculiarities of Norman Potter's case when a guard told me he had made a pen of himself. I was then requested to turn over my own pens and notebook before seeing him.
In my 24 year tenure at Belleview Institution, I have learned to quickly adapt to avoid any of the nuances—unnecessary tapping or other noises, looking into the eyes for too long, etc.—that may trigger an adverse reaction in a patient. In a place so criminal, so volatile, it is a simple rule of survival. Even so, I had never been forced to relinquish my own tools. Going in with only my suitcase and a tape recorder made me feel stripped, almost vulnerable.
I entered the interview room, known as the "board room" to other staff in the ward. It's simple, white-walled, and nearly taken up by a long, executive-style table. It adds a small sense of grace to an otherwise sterile, fluorescent-lit box, but its real purpose is separation. The length limits my exposure to whatever ill wind might be blowing ac