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Atlanta, GA, 4/11/13

April 11, 2013      James Hayes Nichols
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A tree fell in Atlanta

 

it cracked and bent and

cried on the way down

to the red muddy redclay

erosion hillside

 

harmonic discharge and

brute beatingsofthings

vying for supremacy

in the nightmares of kitties

and scaredycat artkids

quaking in the face of

wet dead beetlecrawling

deadwood

Porchester

April 9, 2013      James Hayes Nichols
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A tiger’s eye

in my pocket,

smooth to touch

Guinnessy-dark

 

a man named Mister Bill,

owner and bestower of

the tiger’s eye, had small

intense eyes, bald, beard

of a sage, mystic

 

misty days, then,

I recall, when another

man—a Russian—

taught me karate; got

drunk with my father;

clogged the toilet—

 

big Slavic pile

 

Mama put up with this

for only so long—

hid the tiger’s eye,

smiled when they left

 

went back to bed

Bad Air

April 7, 2013      James Hayes Nichols
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A death panged lightly on singed lungs, a tap of high keys in a minor chord, all structure burned away like fall leaves in front of stateroute trailerhomes, a sweet fragrance seeping between all the sour dying, and when the dying was done the kids swept up the ashes and puffed their pipes.  The ashes tasted worse than the other stuff, but the ashes were free and burned longer, harder, spikier—thus the singe propagated future pangs.

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