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2023 Award For New Poets Winner: “Twelve Thousand Pounds Of Salt” By Ira Goga

Twelve Thousand Pounds of Salt

All afternoon, his passenger,
I fantasized. Summer’s lush lightning

in the distance. And the phlox, whose name
means flame, swept the hillsides.

I think, maybe, I cannot write
about it. How long I’d gone untouched

by danger but flirting, risk licking at my heels.
I wanted it, I’ll say now, because it is true

that I also did not, and said nothing.
What I told him, he wouldn’t believe

until he saw for himself. At the rest stop,
my clothes on the seat. You’re beautiful,

though it was dark in his truck and my body
obscured, though he’d already touched me.

You’re sort of like the best of both I guess
because I’m a guy with a pussy. In the trailer

he carried a kind of salt, twelve thousand pounds
to be made into fertilizer. Name something heavier

and slower to burn the mouth
than shame. When I feel the most myself,

I am mostly invisible. How I’d traveled,
like water, all through the country. Slipping inside

another’s assumptions, I don’t mind.
Believe what you’d like about me.

Through meekness I lived
to see him in such an unguarded moment.
https://www.frontierpoetry.com/2024/04/17/2023-frontier-award-for-new-poets-winner-ira-goga/
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" One of the space allotment department heads declared that it was UNFAIR to management… for my efficacy tools
to call a manager inefficient for taking up useless space, when it was really the shapeshifters."

There isn't room here for the both of us.

How’s that for shifting blame?

Shit does roll downhill, but sometimes "The scum also rises" – Hunter S Thompson

And floaters, never flush.

dr. π (pi)
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A poet and writer as well as an accomplished multi-instrumentalist, Jeff Finlin follows in the tradition that extends from Walt Whitman to Raymond Carver, preaching the gospel of everyman



Tongue of a 21st century skeptic and the muscular grace of a rock and roll spiritualist.

“Language of Love is about the miracle that is love and how it shines through our deepest
doubt, shame, and experiences to become our choice in realization”
– Jeff Finlin


Walt Whitman. Song of Myself. East Aurora, N.Y.: Roycrofters, 1904

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Leeward

Feb. 28th, 2022 11:21 pm
pigshitpoet: (Default)
I didn’t sail on any sea
and yet I know i tack to lee
above the heaven inside me
starboard zephyrs carry me
the mast grows tall upon the hull
and so I keep hoping you will gently
guide my ship over the ocean
and above the squall ~pi

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The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hills greet the dawn;
The lark’s on the wing;
Feathers unfurled;
God’s in His heaven—
All’s right with the world! ~pi

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pigshitpoet: (Default)
if you can't unify platforms and media, you are isolationist
what purpose do you serve but to hide from the world?
i guess that's what dreams are made of
illusive escapism
as if in a dream....
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William Butler Yeats. b. 1865

863. When You are Old

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace, 5
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled 10
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars. link

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