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Poetry || SubmissionsPoems by Lamont PalmerFor John Ritter1 such was his rubber face. he bounced around and tripped and spun and stumbled as if his sense of humor was a disease, as if his sense of humor stayed with him even if he wished it away or if it ruined other choices or if he mugged himself into hollywood obscurity 2 his feet were clowns his face was a clown his heart was clownish and yet soft and warm as a tear when you hear a funnyman is gone 3 sex will never be as zany, double entendree's will never again be like double scoops of wicked ice cream 4 true clowns elicit laughter long after they take their last pratfall into the blue open sky, long after they land flat on our aching memories. Bibliophile do not be jealous my dear but i am in love with the look of a brand new book. i am in love with this voluptuous, wordy entity. i am in love with the whiteness of its pages the smoothness of its cover the way it is bursting with words like a rainbow bursting with color, words that are dark as a le cafe noir against the inside whiteness. i am in love with how my book speaks to me, such lovely metaphors such openess. i can listen all night to a brand new book. so when you see me so lovingly holding it, do not think i want to hold you any less. i am in love with the look and the smell and the feel of a new book. holding a book is like holding a smart woman, smooth and bursting with important information she wants you to know Dear John Letter You have never done that, given me that startling reason for why we shouldn't be together. And you gave it so cooly, so aloofly, I felt the chill come down from the mountain of your apparent repulsion, white and cold like visible breathe on a winter's night, like the handiwork of jackfrost on rowhouse windows, like my body stiff in the cold ground. This is the first time you have said these things. They ring with a power as if you had uttered them millions of times, the power to disassemble me, leaving a broken figurine of a man, my extremeties in various parts of the house. Breakfast the sun touches me as i touch these eggs, yellow as scrambled lightening, and under the glass table your feet playfully touch my knees as i eat and love touches us both like a hand attached to much more than a concept but a powerful enveloping force akin to the creation of a tree or a ray of ubiquitous blinding sunshine Policeman Coming home in the gray with my mind just as gray, my mind devoid of clear thoughts like some reservoir full of formless muck, I see a policeman directing traffic at a burned out traffic light, his face is thin and young, his eyes seemingly unblinking and staring hard with purpose. I pass him slowly on my way. He does not know me and I do not know him, but for a second, as quickly as smoke disappearing into the air, I catch his eye and he catches mine, and for that moment I find myself hoping he will make it home tonight and every other night without being filled with holes, without being filled with cynicism, without being filled with the remnants of human degredation like flesh rotting in his uniformed belly. Widow of War (For George W.) i awoke this morning and reached with love for your warmth usually sprawled like roses beside me this morning i reached for you and grasped nothingness, forgetting death's claim and tasting bits of flesh in my mouth. Lamont Palmer lives in Taneytown Maryland, a small historic community about 20 miles outside of Baltimore. He writes fiction, essays, articles for local newsapers, and just completed a short novel, which he says he is 'painfully shopping around.' In my spare time I enjoy Scrabble, reading, and politics, and, not too proudly but truthfully, movies on the Lifetime Channel. Today's Situation
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