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Tannen Dell-
The Park
The mist
turns streetlamps
into stars, ones that could
be reached illegally by ladder
and Babylonian determination.
The pine trees
Baulk as if a toddler
reached to their boughs
with a plastic shovel and a
tear for my burning cigarette
crying fire on a rusty lid. If birds
weren’t so
ecological this
side of Oregon I‘d
leave it and walk the stars
into a mourning bruise,
into porcelain flowers,
into blended earth-scape,
Where Andromeda feasts on fog.
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No Noon for the Moon
Like weather fucked branches
I storm through your glare
I lash back with nails
I repent and you smile
I storm through your glare
When tugging off collars
I repent and you smile
Like from my dew lungs
When tugging off collars
My pupils stare dune-ward
Like from my dew lungs
I catch a wet breath
My pupils stare dune-ward
When constellations fight
I catch a wet breath
And I’m left in your wake
When constellations fight
I lash back with nails
And I’m left in your wake
Like weather fucked branches
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Blackboards of Discovery
There is a room with a blackboard; it is energetic, full of coffee, inertia thoughts and gravity.
He will be shot
He will be famous
He will remembered
He will misrepresented
“In time, new trees will grow my love and we’ll dine in the forest.”
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Grin to the Dawn
An idea,
when divided
makes quarries of you.
A land fill of anti-depressants is what you breathe. Watch as what you see is brimmed with shining receptors. Notice. Your pupils recharging phone batteries and taste the bitter varnish on your lips, your taste buds sigh and your throat fuses an active bomb. Light up a smoke and hope the flames catch in your lungs-
One
Two
Four
Eight.
A multiplicative boom goes up into shrapnel words and holocaust sentiments. You transmutate your world into concentrated synergy, without a host.
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Cliffs of the Sphere
The sky is a busy street, blurs my page and eco-dome in blue. Why is it I am so tolerant of rain like a child questions incessant in patterns like math in an owls talons, buried in rusty triggers and cogs, hung on a sill, a sill by my bedside leaning to the outward ying-yang of eleven dimensions superimposed in the rainbow praying mantis wings dipped in fossil fuel and left to dry on the eye socket skillets of my three-pronged idealism?
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Tannen Dell is a writer from Tigard, Oregon. He edits at Indigo Rising Magazine and PCC’s Alchemy/Alembic. His goals are: bringing more art programs to schools, continue to write and never run out of Coffee.
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