
The Pope Replies to the Ayatollah Khomeini By Ishmael Reed - Giggle Poems
My Dear Khomeini: I read your fourteen thousand dollar ad asking me why the Vatican waited all of these years to send an envoy to complain about condi ...
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My Dear Khomeini: I read your fourteen thousand dollar ad asking me why the Vatican waited all of these years to send an envoy to complain about condi ...
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One gas lamp burning near her shoulder Shone also from her other side Where hung the long inaccurate glass Whose pictures were as troubled water.
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We raised a prayer house— that is, we broke new wood for one, but some tough burned it, snarling: “Carve only stones for the dead.” Damp ground, no fi ...
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Dear Mother, is any time left to us In which to be happy? I am sick of having colds and headaches: You know my strange life. You little know A poet’s ...
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THE MIND IS AN ANCIENT AND FAMOUS CAPITAL The mind is a city like London, Smoky and populous: it is a capital Like Rome, ruined and eternal, Marked by ...
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That evening I paced up and down, dropping melon seeds, Tomatoes and bush lima beans here and there Where I thought they would grow. I planted kidney ...
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I just had the old Dodge in the shop with that same damned front-end problem, and I was out, so to speak, for a test run, loafing along, maybe 35 m.p. ...
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You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed; lie, fisted like a snail, so small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. Yo ...
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I held my breath and daddy was there, his thumbs, his fat skull, his teeth, his hair growing like a field or a shawl.
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But what if I tore you apart for those afternoons when I was fifteen and so like a bird of paradise slaughtered for its feathers. The three of us blen ...
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I didn’t write Etsuko, I sliced her open. She was carmine inside like a sea bass and empty. You laugh, holding me belly-down with your body. I take th ...
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Whoever tastes my woman in his candy, his cake, tastes something sweeter than this sugar cane; it is grief.
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“Earth is the birth of the blues,” sang Yellow Bertha, as she chopped cotton beside Mama Rose. If it wasn’t for hell, we’d all be tapdancing with the ...
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My sister rubs the doll’s face in mud, then climbs through the truck window. The old man yells for me to help hitch the team, but I keep walking aroun ...
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RUSSIA, 1927 On the day the sienna-skinned man held my shoulders between his spade-shaped hands, easing me down into the azure water of Jordan, I woke ...
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