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Poetry || SubmissionsAfter Leaving These WallsSometimes I think myself the black part of a tree, I suffer a nosebleed when an owl breaks slaughter on a field mouse, my mouth drips the sap of satisfaction when she returns with her claws perching the branch of my arms- where home is as dangerous as the moon reflecting her eyes. I'll remember the vines when they entangled the wall; pressing blood from grapes less where my veins drank. There are finger impressions upon this razor board mirror, a stone face man reflects back bending to snort the line of snow. In this hollow wintry room a restlessness howl spirals downward, again. Blind I am of the blind, to the light nonsense overlays my eyelids. When I close my eyes, I have no pictures of memory- a place to recall and fall back on. The astuteness rests in the tenors of music, as my golden fingers govern the white teeth of a baby grand piano. My ear tremors, the Mozart of imagination. Orange, what is orange? Orange is black, yellow is black, black, well, is black. The taste of an orange I know is Florida sweet. I was told the sun could resemble an orange. I know it's round. These four senses of mine I follow out to the fullest: to touch, to smell, to hear, to taste. I feel the face round, breath warm as the sun. An aroma in your aurora. Your voice sings a melody as citrus stings after kissing your lips. Spring That Opens, A New Beginning Spring that opens, a new beginning -to seek to find to knock in coves in caverns in caves where sufferings are in megalomania originated to be sought (the minaret of souls) stretching for a renewal as to glimpse a sparrow and find the entity the spirea, unyielding to declare her milestone birth; in her pertinacious pedal give the everborn nature introit a song a rhythm intone so the bee can dance so the river can exodus; whistle so the grass can perform and leaves can applaud in trees -as so today the delicate masquerade of a high-veined parade saluting to Spring's unfolding season why the east blows of clouds and fragrance and March streaming in triumphant soldiers (who won the war and lost a friend) as they crawl from out the sting in coves in caverns in caves and find the bee dancing and the sparrow in paragon and their hands clean open as like the fingers of a tulip free from the slaying rifle with the washing American flag; which holds their pride together (for why they are fighting) -to see heaven intoto. Auctioned Life I went down that old bending road where great silver maples clung together -like cherubim angels with violins. This time no music ran in the wind. It stood vacant, without any glory like eyes in a closed casket, faded, yellow painted chips peeling, and grass reaching the border of the porch past the knees of my legs. Plywood nailed, covered doors and windows with broken glass. I walked right through; entered the doors of twenty years. Blue tile kitchen streaked rust. I smelled the steaming apples while dusty Sinatra spun around and skipped some under a needle. Sun flashed through the broken window spilled a sparkle in your eyes- and we kissed. I seen Puddles come through her doggie hole, muddy paws on wash-waxed boards tail wagging ferociously- looked like she smiled when she panted. You yelled at her whacking a rolled up Democrat and Chronicle against your palm. I laughed as Puddles slipped through the black cobwebbed hole. May she rest in peace swinging her tail like a pendulum in heaven. I heard you in the backyard: the dry in ground pool bottomed with deadened leaves mud and frogs. You we giggling, floating on a tube in your red two-piece bikini. The sun was biting your skin bronze and you splashed cool water on me. I'm always thinking of you, as our memories are auctioned off, on this block, in our house. Everything is sold: a piece of me, a part of you. Short life, my small hands couldn't hold; a life confiscated by bigger hands. Rapture of Eighteen Eighty A summer day that I remember On an August, note of warmth Clouds of gray bundled the sky Darkness came in the westward wind. Lightning shot with a finger of December Anger had spilled the cup that storeth God stood array, His angels I saw fly Gathering of man, they marked and bind. Distant tears and cries did render Earth in fetters, a storm came forth Fire and brimstone death did not defy Desperate souls under the millstone find. The earth in tremble, fear swept faces asunder Leather into flesh, a Lighthouse imploreth The churches fell vein, the Cross-cast up high Whippers cease whipping, grinders cease grind. It came from the east with wonder and splendor One hand swung a sword the other had crowneth Four punctures were revealed, nailed to die The One changed water into wine. Hair like sheep's wool, his skin of dark amber Bronze legs did charge with nostrils a-flareth Judgment in his eyes, tongue of fire to not lie The Book opened in his Father's hands of time. A day's wage is another dollar tender Thought their Christ white, how a mind faileth These pallid devils, eager to sell and buy Do they now wish to whip the Lord Divined? I'd wished not see to that I saw surrender Hell was hungry, its stomach did growleth Earth's mouth opened and swallowed sty Each fell deep, to a fire less defined. I closed my eyes and found myself afloat Following behind my Savior -The deadened earth shrinking smaller Scores of kinfolks on the narrow road To Paradise. Anthony Liccione is a college student and in a band, for which he writes and in which he sings. His poetry has appeared in Hazmat Review, Melting Trees Review, Melange, Wilmington Blues, Cabbages, Kings Student Literary and Rochester Shorts. Today's Situation
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