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Poetry

from Kundiman for the Condemned

ahlan wa sahlan note a poem o receive it here as it charades onto history's gauzy list

The Human Machine: 30 Chances

No, in a shed under the machine You stopped brushing; then you resumed brushing

The Fallout

The fallout mustn’t be monitored

Dead Black Men

I won’t die at a party like this, falling over the contortions in my gut or floating over the whirlpool of cups...

For Beth Ward

One of my basic human dilemmas goes something like, Does metaphor contain us, or do we extend ourselves out into it?

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The Brooklyn Rail

MAY 2008

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