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Literature Text
Walking into battle armed with broken tongue,
I prepare myself to succeed, climb the rungs.
But how to quell this fear by which I'm high-strung?
I prepare myself to succeed, climb the rungs.
But how to quell this fear by which I'm high-strung?
Literature
California
My father was San Francisco and my mother, the Pacific;
at five I was in love with nine-lane highways, the scent of
eucalyptus pressed between my fingers, yellow parchment
hills crumpled up under the eye of the sun. If I had a sunset
to myself I would curl up on a park bench like the hippies do,
and eavesdrop on the sea lions’ bedtime conversations.
Alcatraz never quite unbarred me and yet I have found
freedom in hills steep as my shoulders; I know that I am
beautiful even in the rain because I have kissed the smoke
of Berkeley and tasted her on my teeth. I was born to
dangle my legs over Golden Gate Bridge and of course,
of
Literature
The Guide
For a minute there I thought I
was at the wrong house. Then you tried
to fetch your toast with a fork, while
it was plugged in. Now the tile
floor is scuffed up and you're all fried.
Makes my job easy. Oh don't try
to plead or beg. This is your time
to follow me, no need to lie
for a minute
or an hour. Whichever kind
of bargain you have isn't my
problem. My job is to file
your soul for future trial.
Though, I guess, I'll let you cry
for a minute.
Literature
n.i.
in the mornings i wake
like faded candlelight -
soft and unsure, blown by the wind
from the open window because
the heat resides within the bedframe and the
monochrome moments.
in the mornings i pray for lights-out
and an empty sink to share
my dreams with before
morning becomes day
and day becomes lonely in the flash
of the sunlight seeping
'round the blackout curtains.
some days i want to sleep forever
and only wake when
everyone is comatose within
their dreams; i want to be the ghost
that causes chills in the night
so i can say i made others
feel something
(because i feel so much i've gone
half-numb).
some days i wish i could
speak
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DFC Day 20! That means we're two thirds of the way through! I'm posting this a day early because I don't know how much internet access I'll have tomorrow.
Anyway, this is a Middle Eastern form called the Muzdawidj, which is made of rhyming triplets with 11 syllables per line. I wrote it while waiting for my spoken French exam; unfortunately, I wasn't able to answer the question in that last line before said exam began.
Anyway, this is a Middle Eastern form called the Muzdawidj, which is made of rhyming triplets with 11 syllables per line. I wrote it while waiting for my spoken French exam; unfortunately, I wasn't able to answer the question in that last line before said exam began.
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