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3 poems by Marie Nunalee

8/12/2013

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Picture
blockage no. 8

a bumblebee, Kamikaze pilot 
in disguise, balancing ancillary, 

damp sidewalk-situated, papier 
mache pinions flashing faintly.

six coarse-haired legs flicker for the 
troubleshoot-detection of external 

demise; antennae circuits flip on,
flip off, blow fuses red and bright.


I don't fit in here

all of the don’t cares 
become the dos
in the prime of uncut 
nine-inch youth and the
faces are lamentable
the same, no game,
held still without 
contempt - 

one becomes
as flame-set maiden, 
expectant matron, 
rotting crone - switching
off in a Billy Idol selfish
omni-trance waltzing
Matilda with a 
seventy-two hour
passing span one 
by in azure pastures’ 
midst, double-sided
stick-taped on horse
shoes, tapping painful 
on red panes, 

won’t you help me, 
you are who we once
to be, help, I took the 
wayward gravel help, 
I thought it was to my 
home help, this thing 
I signed up for lacks
preconceived 
instructions

what am
I to color by the number
in between finite 
undefined lines paint
my way into the 
feathered spine -


insomnia

silence, black, neither
nigh so entire so long’s
one’s bedroom window
drapery - sentry - 
permits entry to the pale
orange street lamps, our
midnight constellations, 
alight and abuzz, the 
bass line hum of tires 
glancing highway single-
file; how long does one 
lie here, arms crossed in
the letter X, back flat as
in a silk-lined pine box, 
how many minutes will 
the cycling aerial, all 
capitals, all moving, cast 
onto closed orange 
Viewfinder lids, empty
seats before IT’S GOING
TO BE ALL RIGHT, IT’S
GOING TO BE ALL 
RIGHT, IT’S GOING TO 
BE ALL RIGHT, IT’S 
scrolling in nonstop purple 
Helvetica circles before 
the body topples, spine
lurching in a crash land 
down upon an X-spot 
marking helicopter landing
pad, the hundred foot
descent into golden,
deep, equilibrium, sleep?

photo credit: scyrene via photopin cc
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