Nina Leen 1957
Brilliant, passionate, mysterious…. Gigi.
he sat in the small dark bar
watching her dance the tango
passion played out
on an ancient wooden floor
the man holding her
was pressed tightly
against her long lean body
she was beautiful
and moved with confidence and ease
her black dress clinging to her curves
her black heels making noise
only when she wanted them to do so
the man was madly in love with her
anyone could see that
but she hardly seemed to notice
so lost in the music
and the moment
unaware of anything else
if he could dance
he would walk onto the floor
and tear her away from him
take her for himself
horrified by his own thoughts
when he looked up
she was staring at him
as if she had read his mind
he couldn’t move
she laughed into the man’s shoulder
and looked away
his heart was…
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I dreamed you beside me
in a small fishing village,
our bare feet dangling
from an ancient wall.
Stone soldiers, eternally
gaurding held back the
swell of the rushing sea.
By the beacon of a distant
lighthouse sea birds flew over
only to vanish beneath its
A shell at my ear I held you,
gathered you in silk arms of netting.
Losing my grip you slipped away,
freed from the catch of dreams.
Springtime bends the
hibiscus and sweetens the
night where there is no weight
in air or flowers or the fire of
The professor was always
watching me, chasing after me,
whispering warnings as though
he were my father.
Still I tore at those wounds,
those itching scabs of words
until I ripped off their secrets.
At night he played piano in a
sleazy bar singing about revolution
in his ragged jeans smoking weed
and preaching anarchy.
When the soldiers tortured him
he told them about my treason,
writing poetry at night while
he was sleeping.
Excerpt from “Redhead (to Denver) by Brice Maiurro
you are between a rock and a hard place
your face does not illuminate the same as the others
your lights are few and speckled
but i’ve always loved freckles
you are a grid system at first glance
i know they tell you real women have curves
but real women know better than that
sometimes you are cold and the conversation runs dry
but it’s not easy being as high as you are all the time
i love you
i never want to leave you
and i know you don’t believe me
but you are the manic pixie dream girl
who at times is slightly annoying
but i know your heart is too full of
homeless men laying out sleeping bags
on the floor of your rib cage
great tent cities on your shoulders
Only earth angels hear the tender rippling
In the pounding rain we
bare our quills to the world,
reappear from our veiled cage.
Bruises of the soul are slow to heal
but we are indifferent to pain.
Gardenias fill the room with mortality,
petals of sweet secrets nurtured by a rhapsody of recollection.
Surrendering dreams makes us still,
a vast wasteland where all poetic breath
dies with us.
We long for the clean scent of Spring,
the rust smell of earth infused in deep roots,
to hear again the swaying chimes on the limbs
of a slender Linden,
synchronized for the twilight hours.