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My hair is not falling out
It's just turned around
Instead of growing North
It's now flowing South

Out of my nose
And off my ears
Plus other locations
I'll not mention here
It's Winter here
In Florida
How do I know
The calendar says so

There's the slightest dip
In humidity
If you ask me
The bugs are relieved

As far as all  
Our winter clothes
Bermuda shorts
Are pulled down low

Out come the socks
Between the toes
Pull back the yarn
Where the sandal goes

And with the sweat
On my forehead
I'm pretty sure
There's one or two drops less

People bring
Their families down
I can always tell
There's a bigger crowd

All the birds
Just sit and stare
With a knowing nod
They're going nowhere

Yes it's winter here
In Florida
How do I know
The calendar says so
Put me in a needle
Shoot me in your vain's
Rowing through your vessels
Like two lovers on a lake

Doing my best to create a wake
Near to where you are
Once around the ankle
Twice around the heart

I might even tickle
Somewhere along the way
As I ebb and flow
Closer to your brain

Riding on the constant wave
From the beating of your chest
Until I win you over
There will be no rest

So put me in a needle
Shoot me in your vain's
Rowing through your vessels
Like two lovers on a lake
With their special smiles
Setting both our young hearts free
Reminding me of you
Reminding you of me

Coming from the both of us
On that special night of need
Planting of the love
Setting life to seed

Since that moment came along
Life has never been the same
Sharing all that we are
Included in our names

As now our needs are truly met
With both of them our fortune and fame
Having that joy by our side
We'd gladly give all else away

Though we both knew of love
We never knew of this
Sent from the heavens up above
Pure of beauty and of bliss

The moment that we first laid eyes
A life beyond that of rich
Nothing could match as much joy
As a love like this
For both my beautiful daughters
For your response, fellow writers on H.P.,
To my
Attempts
At painting
With
Words
Which
I know are, to me,
Inadequate.
Why? Well, like, Socrates , hailed as a wise man, told you all
HE new nothing.
I
Know
There is more
I can do to get it right.  BUT ,Right, in accordance to what and who?
The
RIght/Write
Is YOU!...And, acknowledging The CREATOR and CHRIST.

I
Have faults amany,
Like
Everyone...
I
Am like YOU
But are ME
Struggling
Like
CHRIST
Trying to be nice
Preventing a Nuclear Holocaust
To say
Simply
I
LOve
You
From the bottom of MY heart.
I
Can go on forever with my rant (while pulsating one should!)
There
Is so much more I want to express
And
Will
If GOD respires.
Dear David:

We are deeply gratified that you gave us the opportunity
to read your poems.  Notice that we say “opportunity”
rather than “submission,” for truly you graced us with works
of such enduring power, so sublime, so transcendent,
that our humble words scarce can adequately praise
the sacred privilege of reading them.

Seldom, no, never has human experience been so distilled,
so purified, so exalted, yet so exposed
in all its paradox, its shades and sunbursts,
shouts and silences, the hiding places redolent of inner light,
as in these timeless works.  

A calm breeze from the desert’s edge at dusk,
the chatter of a mockingbird at dawn,
the rumble and crash of a hidden waterfall,
the laughter of a child unseen in a cool wood’s shade,
emanate so intensely from the shapes of these letters
that our faith in the power of language to evoke reality
has been nourished and restored to its proper place.

However, we regret to inform you
that your poems do not meet our needs at this time,
which are for relevant poems for the upcoming
theme issue on Hammer Toes.

We hope you will consider us for future opportunities.

Sincerely,

The editors of ******* Quarterly
Have been collecting a lot of rejection letters lately.  Here's my interpretation.
They'll have no carcass
Not when our collective trash
Is up for picking
My friend works at
An old folks home
Makes his living off the
Constant enterprise of  
Death and disease

"It's a dark place"
He says
A parliament light
Between his fingers

He tells me about
A twenty five year
Old who has
Muscular dystrophy
Named anthony

"You should see him clam
Up around this aid, Caitlin.
All he wants to do is talk
To her."

A man
A boy really
Two years younger
Than me whose body
Decided to eat itself
One day
Who still gets nervous
Around pretty nurses

"He'll be dead in five years."

He tells me about Joyce

"She collapsed in the
Airport on her way back
To England. Shes been in the
Home for seven years. Her
Family doesn't have enough
Money to bring her home.
She told me it's all about the dash."

The dash? I say
Tipping the green
Bottle up and draining
The last warm slug of
Beer into my mouth

"Yeah, the dash.
On your tombstone.
It doesn't matter what date
You were born or the date
You die. What matters is the
Dash in between them."

I leave later than I should
When music comes on
The car radio I turn it off
And drive with the windows
Down.
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