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Concerto
Chopin's music: its violent liquidity strip-searches the soul. | |
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Grant Street
Blood under streetlights-- neon red, the shocking jewels scattered at her feet.
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Florentine Morning
Dawn. The angel turns, wings tangled in sun-gilt sheets. Eyes open. A smile.
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Chicago
Smoke wanders upward from old bricks and rusting iron, shredding into dusk.
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Storyteller
Her negligent hands swoop, gesture, return to rest. Grace, limned by fire.
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Kissing Medusa
"Kiss me," she commanded as a thousand flicking tongues taste me in return.
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Given enough time desire, like agony, breaks the strongest will.
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Love is many-hued.
It is a stained-glass landscape kept in my pocket. |