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Literature Text
How do you uncook the glaciers
Or distill carbon dioxide
Into gasoline?
Can you return everything
With your godly intelligence
To the beginning?
Make a challenge out of entropy
Instead of profits?
When will you grow tired
Of your silly games
Hide and seek with numbers
And denial
The margin is cracking around you
Between nature and capital gains
Too late to cry when water
Swallows
Your
Children
Whole
And they wonder why you denied
Them a future and an option:
Change
Or distill carbon dioxide
Into gasoline?
Can you return everything
With your godly intelligence
To the beginning?
Make a challenge out of entropy
Instead of profits?
When will you grow tired
Of your silly games
Hide and seek with numbers
And denial
The margin is cracking around you
Between nature and capital gains
Too late to cry when water
Swallows
Your
Children
Whole
And they wonder why you denied
Them a future and an option:
Change
Literature
Focus.
Focus.
Drawing the eye
to the still
Heart.
Tip
of the pencil,
of the finger,
drawing,
writing,
typing
And the words,
Unblurred
sense.
Polar coordinate of my sphere:
Throat
and four o’clock
of the crown;
Lips would kiss
sullen smile
to unhappy joy.
Seamus.
Literature
Absence
there is snow all around
and we have invited you in
but silence falls like night
and the winds carry no sound
I remember; it was by the river
when you carried me on your shoulders
I covered your eyes with my hands
and there was laughter
It was in the woods, I remember
you taught me to ski
it was getting dark already
and there was still a long way to go
and yet there was no rush
and we talked about the stars
I remember; It was by the sea
already after everything changed
on a cold day still full of joy
when we were all brought together;
there were few words, even then
but we could still see the shine
and the pride in your eyes
as I took h
Literature
Angstxiety
I am work weak on Wednesday
in a heap of hangover and hesitation
with fingers on a phone haptically
actively anticipating feedback—
I need that why do I need that.
My angst and anxiety
is constant and courses
and throbs with a pulse
that demands concern
of a baby boomer crooning poetic
in the distance to call me antisocial, or you know,
you could just call me.
If being this busy in an age
of constant communication
feels like having slept
but not feeling rested,
I'd rather cancel my plans
like a responsible millennial
and go to bed.
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Glaciers retreated far more during the end of the Little Ice Age in the mid-1800s, than they have since.