Alan Botsford-II
mamaist drops (2)
Let the salamander outrun
Night’s opening door;
Cast your own shadow in
The flame of morning.
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While you’re going all the
Way from heaven to hell,
Stop in and see me sometime,
Said the canary to the cat.
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The fetus curl he slept in
On cold nights warmed
The heart of his death
Which he kept watch over
In his dreams.
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What does a daisy give?
A daisy gives a fig.
The lotus, though, blossoms
From the inside out, true to itself.
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Salve is the best boon
Money can’t buy.
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The end of now
Begins now.
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I sought to wed
Dream and poetry
To make both true.
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For fathers go forward
Where mothers go backward: thus
A word is born.
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A word that crowd-surfs its way to center stage
To be seen and heard, is obeying not the word of law
But the law of words.
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There was once upon the time the end.
Now before after, is just after.
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Own your own
–is it or isn’t it?—
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With the body in mind,
I mind the body.
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Beyond control but tantalizingly watchable
Is the subconscious.
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Past makes present commodify the future
Bought and sold in the marketplace of sound.
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Alphabet soup and humble pie dished out
To the budding poets of the world won’t deter
Their appetite for life and glory.
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Steamrolled into politics, I’ve discovered
Depths lying beneath the pavement of stars.
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The taproot of the poet is spine plus pain, in equal measure.
The heaviness lifts with each letter written down.
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