david jewell poet

diari unui mgeni.

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entry 1.

 

I see other hoodwinks.

I hear other distances.

palm open wide. . .

martian landscape above.

 

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No matter how long I watch her, or hear her smoky voice,

or listen to her hot words, while her lips caress the language,

or how closely I watch her dance, and swing her hair around––

she is like a beautiful mystery, forever unfolding,

like watching the ocean~~wave after wave, from infinity to

infinity, luscious, dripping, ripe like swollen fruit.

 

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upside down in reality’s playpen.
swinging on the monkey bars of everyday dreams.
flowing with the notion of the motion of the ocean––
rocking steady and sweet in the heartbeat
of cosmic love.

peaceloveout.

 

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televisionhttps://soundcloud.com/david-jewell-3/television

siri something

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Just drinking my head on straight this season and then I’m just trying to keep it together and going straight line quick turnaround quit walking backwards you know I just want you to do big circles you’re going really big circles from the spirals where I’m ever evolving out was a little bit you know then maybe going straight line once in a while because I got to keep my feet moving forward and like I wanted to a lot of things so much energy in a day and I get worn out really fast and then also watching TV and everything goes haywire I just don’t really like watching the TV anymore just leave it outside

siri poem midnight delirium

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1.
Excuse me miss me which way were you talking when you were walking backwards inside my door like to know if you were leaving or coming in because you were moving towards the living room but often backwards so like you were leaving then you brought all those candlesticks in the room and put on a negligée so I figured you were staying I put on the soft music and we were dancing around on the carpet cut the rug a little bit I can’t remember any problems anymore can’t remember.

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time with fuzzy edges.
time leaking linearity.

sitting on an airplane one afternoon.
on my way home from visiting my father,
who was finishing his life, and would be gone
in a few months.

I’d been looking through photos of my father
when he was a child.
I could see him as a child, and I could see him
as the man who was my father when I was a child,
and I could see him as he was then, a man
preparing to say good-bye.

I was sitting on the plane looking at all the other
passengers. We all woke up somewhere that morning.
Groggily. Knowing we would travel. And we would all
fall asleep somewhere that evening. Cozy. Having arrived.
Now we were in the air.

I could see them all as they were when they were babies,
and I could see them all as the people they were right then,
and I cold see them all in the future somewhere,
leaving their bodies behind.

And time.
What is time but a practical and ridiculous way of slicing
tiny slices from a lovely round cake that we could enjoy
just as well, if not better, by keeping it whole, and sharing
all the moments, each and every, now and always, as one.

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and whether it is what you needed to grow,
or something that sort of destryoed you,
how would you ever know

mandalablur

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