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George Wallace
Author of fourteen chapbooks of poetry, published in the US, UK and Italy,
including the award-winning Burn My Heart In Wet Sand, George Wallace is editor of
Poetry Bay. A Pushcart nominee, he has read his poetry at Carnegie Hall and the Algonquin Club, across the US, and from London and
Belfast to Rome, Athens and Paris, France. He has conducted poetry workshops worldwide at universities and writers' retreats; appeared at such events as
Bradstock, Lowell Celebrates Kerouac, Howlfest and the Woody Guthrie Festival in Okemah, Ok. In 2003 George Wallace was named the first Poet Laureate for
Suffolk County, New York.
JASMINE FLOWER
sometimes when i hold you
you are paleolithic
you are african village
you are queen high
you are room full of strangers
you are missionary
you are snow-swept plateau
you are construction worker
you are black ant
sometimes when i hold you
you are grain of rice
you are bowl of sugar
you are boat on the thames
you are coral necklace
you are daughter of the sky
you are wind carrying a prelate
like an oakleaf
back to the capital city
sometimes when i hold you
five fingers are not enough
ten fingers are not enough
a room full of fingers
the grip of opposable thumbs
the distance between
a man and his capacity to
love his fellow man
is not enough
and you become injectible
you become habitual
you become casual
you become a reflection of an owl
in a bowl of kiffisia water
sometimes when i hold you
you are broken tablet
your are dutch chocolate
you are two halves of a honeycomb
stuck back together by a child
you are french revolution
you are sunlight on the sahara
you are the unforgiving wanderer
the dictatorship of men
the spun poppy
the yellow cornfield
and i am aware that my palms are not enough
neither is the breadth of my hands
or the life force that flows
from bone to bone
from nerve to nerve
from flesh to flesh
not enough!
but you are teacup
you are blue autumn
you are fresh clay
you are spinning wheel
you are bakery truck
you are cement mixer
you are airplane propeller
you are shunted maple
and i want to hold you forever
and memorize your name
and never let you go
baby sparrow
shaft of barley
paper doll
book of untranslatable plays
seashell
quartz crystal
lock of hair
mouthful of ashes
RHYTHM OR BREAD
you always bring something back to me
from the street or from a kitchen
from the arms of prison
or the arms of the sun
from the smell of churchwax
or woodsmoke or leather
from chimney soot or snowflakes
from that flatfall mountaintop i have never seen
from the dark embrace of jamaican rum
from the eyes of a newt
staring back at you
under a rock
in new hampshire
from bangkok
from mexico
from india
from new orleans
i listen all night
for your skip shuffle
your hotel corridor
your out into
your hypodermic night
i reach for you
your breasts
your pillowcase
your stomach
your ridiculous knees
you're not there
but in my sleep
i taste you
your sincerity
your poetry
your seasalt
your unwavering
your rhythm or bread
your fascination
with strangers
your latin dancing
your skip-step
your up and gone
and your return, yes
your inevitable return
THE INDIANA BRIDE
she buried the hatchet
she strangled the gravedigger
she interrupted the murder
she ran away with the cook
she spilled the marriage gravy
on her grandpa's vest
she wore a coral necklace
she danced with her soccer coach
she undid her sister's braids
and displayed her breasts at the pulpit
like a pair of immaculate crystals
she tossed her bouquet
into the nuptial salad
she laid her head down
in a bed of plastic explosives
she gave away her high school iud
she kissed her godmother
she kissed her college room mate
she kissed somebody named walter
she kissed her college room mate again
because one afternoon they were stuck together
in a phone booth on the interstate
outside of dayton ohio
and it was there
that she experienced
her first amazing
abandoned moment
moment of cyclones
moment of barn doors
moment of galloping horses
moment of turquoise sun
that tasted of mountains
that tasted of sulfur
that tasted of lemons
and future snow storms
and canadian whiskey
and no more weaknesses
and no more football stadiums
and no more mid-west unmade beds
and all night incomplete highways
moment of expanding forever sky
that tasted like ripe mango
sailing over gulf of mexico waters
on incredible pelican wings
copyright
© George Wallace
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