UNDERGROUND VOICES: POETRY
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ANTHONY LICCIONE coping with cops, that drive with a dozen donuts on the front seat yeah, we went at it again, with our throats hung out tongues cutting away at each other like knives, until the padding cops came laughing at us as usual, asking me, what is it this time, and I will say the world still fucked as these words are fucked, and no matter what I say, they will arrest me, and offer me up a glazed with rainbow sprinkles, and I will turn it down, and watch them spill their coffee at a tight-curb-turn, knowing all too well the sun will rise tomorrow and maybe the ocean will shift 3.2 degrees below, those awful cornered smiles and bread making babies strolling in the streets with mother’s disaster, until handcuffs come off and the bars lock in place, after the bail is posted, until we fight again, maybe a smashed bottle over the head, or pulled out hair in fingers, and they will come again writing it off as a cause of domestic violence, not really caring that one day it might be a trigger pulled, and a cooling body on the kitchen floor, and me wondering if they will have that grape-jelly filled with sugar-powder one, that I’ve been requesting these last ten rides. Anthony Liccione lives in Texas with his two children. His poems have appeared in several print and online journals, and he has four collections of poetry books. |
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