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Poems By David Thornbrugh |
American Poets in Their Prime
Lawrence Ferlinghetti wants to sell me some underwear
Wallace Stevens pulls fourteen blackbirds up the golden nib of a
pen
Emily Dickinson delivers milk fresh daily in bottles of
moonlight
Walt Whitman sells bear hug shampoo on his Web site
Ezra Pound cooks fascist pasta in the wire cage of Pisan pigeons
Kenneth Patchen welds irony to anger with a torch of pure
moonlight
Diane Wakoski paints her face on every mirror of the Hall of
Versailles
Allen Ginsberg croons social justice into the taut bulb of a
young
boy's
cock
William Carlos Williams fills one red wheelbarrow with fresh
babies wet
with
plain words
Edgar Allen Poe pounds the prophetic piano of his teenage bride
T.S. Eliot bounces bad checks off London bank counters
Edna St. Vincent Millay merges pharmaceutical veins into purple
drapes
Langston Hughes swims a river of locomotive smoke in search of a
looser
necktie
Gertrude Stein leaves Oakland back there in the not there
wherefore and
furthermore
Anne Sexton smokes a filter-tip oar on a therapy couch wet with
love
juice
David Thornbrugh currently writes from South Korea, where he
teaches English in a National University. He writes to push back
the darkness a little bit at a time, in the same flighty manner
as lightning bugs. He has been published in numerous small press
journals, and once wrote the questions for a geography textbook.
He prefers multiple choice questions to True/False.
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