Archive for the ‘Anthology’ Category

…what about?

If around my un-dead dirty life and greedy guilt in any way we still could talk,
then goodly, Goody, what about?
Your ever-less-than-guilty-somehow-goodly-always-well-meant dirt,
and greedy goodness without end?

Or animals in-every-single-way-well-meant-goodly in their dirty cages,
penned for slaughter broken-legged or other tests to fill real good our goodly un-dead guts,
our greed for dirty knowledge,
and endless torture to no good end?

Oh, Goody, this all is much-too-much-of-goodly-goodly-goodness for one as just-not-good as not-un-greedy-un-dead-dirty-un-good me.

[Bodwyn Wook

[all rights reserved

[13 June 2010]

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Lying About Everything


This I and me and loving you is a woodtick clinging on, hooking, sucking, calling what is going on something else, like love, the lying that goes on and on.  Love changes all.  That’s the fib.  So I remember late in April home from Morocco and free of Islam and a cult of Peace Corps goodness, walking West on 50th and free — briefly — from all belief, prancing in the freezing early morning light over my back and shoulders like Eastern robes, washed in floods of icy air down from Dakota and the Arctic Circle.  There are no Springtime woodticks on city sidewalks.  It was air you could drink though, the last of Winter down from out of town, as clean as a new refrigerator and humming from the new buds in boulevard elm tops all the way down to the bottom of my chest.  That morning I had anyway another thirty-one years before me of breathing in other men’s things, and thoughts even, all with the ladies’ and other things’ glad free consent, I first thought.  Another lie.  Only seconds, and thirds, would smear and drag it all under again, in love.  Love changes all.  The loving that goes on and on like a cold Spring gale in treetops.  All these gutsy lies told over and over loom and gust and lunge over the remembered places, things, and all the years of munched persons.  In my icy trunk and limbs are tucked away and awaiting warming up again the refrigerated leftover frozen faces of many a meal.  And so innocent and smarmy as Santy Claus at home at the North Pole with a snug fireplace and a load of cats all purring indoors in love with my icebox, now I pester grandchildren for all of this attention and notice.  All made up beforehand.  In love.

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More Faithlessness


Quitting smoking is not some battle won, it is just another loss of belief.

[Emmett R Smith     all rights reserved     4 October 2009]

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Baling Hay

Baling Hay

by Emmett Smith

THE Redwinged Summer blackbirds sweep low over our July hay wagon half piled up now in Blue Earth County over halfway through the year,
and the midafternoon curses, itch and sweat bring thought to me,
of black December so soon on us now,
and the red and yellow blaze in my black iron kitchen woodrange,
snug and dark and warm in there at night in Winter where the baby Jesus weeps,
then sleeps.

071209 redwing blackbird perched a

[Emmett R Smith     all text-rights reserved & all other rights revert to holders     12 July 2009]

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by Emmett Smith

I Am three in my fourth year and at night the once-upon-a-time gaslit streetlights of St Anthony Park glow on their green painted iron posts through the net curtains in my Irish step-grandmother’s parlor, in the old house (more…)

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When My Grandfather Died

by Emmett R Smith

WHEN My Grandfather died (more…)

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by ‘abd al-‘Abru

At last a man become fully (more…)

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Bean Month

‘abd al-‘Abru

I Am a man, (more…)

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by MuHammad Nejmi 

ON Your dying day and in that

everlasting minute breath out slowly, (more…)

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