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In Domestic News
In Domestic News
In Domestic News
Ebook227 pages44 minutes

In Domestic News

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This book includes poems published between 2009 and 2012 mostly, whose themes of domestic life, work, suffering, and redemption still resonate. The collection includes free verse poems, as well as works using and experimenting with forms. A number of previously unpublished pieces have been added, including a selection of haiku ("Bony Tree Fingers"). Long time fans may remember the three sequences on grief in the section titled "Three Laments." Representing a significant phase in the author's career, the volume should be an important part of any poetry lover's collection.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateMar 2, 2018
ISBN9781370518715
In Domestic News
Author

Michael Neal Morris

Michael Neal Morris is the author of Based on Imaginary Events, Release, Haiku, Etc., Music for Arguments, In Domestic News and other books. He has published a number of stories, poems, and essays both online and in print. He teaches Composition and Creative Writing at Eastfield College in Mesquite. He lives with his wife, children, and two snarky cats just outside the Dallas area.

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    Book preview

    In Domestic News - Michael Neal Morris

    Cave

    This darkness

    is unnamable, unexplained

    (untamed?).

    Whether wrapped in a blanket or rope

    I cannot say.

    I'm choking, but feel breath

    trickle in, quietly,

    like a word outside a cave

    I don't know how to hear.

    Follow, even my stomach says.

    Lower parts concur, I'm surprised to note.

    But the line between satisfaction and gluttony

    is not clearly drawn. What I know

    is that I'm fat. What I do not know

    is how to starve.

    And the hole

    through which I might escape

    seems to diminish. Or is it widening

    so that I might squeeze out of this womb

    and into joyful, tired arms?

    Who can say, when I cannot comprehend

    my own hand in front of me?

    When I'm not looking, sometimes even

    with closed eyes,

    I sense your hand nearby

    pulling, maybe petting,

    and the inhabitants of your earth

    look like trees walking in circles.

    Divorcing TV

    Though you call yourself giving

    and I watch and listen in stupid love,

    you just don't know

    how much I'd like to smash your blind eye.

    I want to take your sounds--

    all the testicle tantalizing tones,

    the hissing kissing make me wishing whispers--

    and squeeze them between my avenging fingers.

    You do not breathe. Nor do you hear.

    But you pant, then act sympathetic,

    then pant again, madly,

    wildly shouting for the green orgasm

    (though I'm as exciting as a banker).

    When I'm spent, you do not hold me.

    And your caress is as soft as electrocution.

    Can I separate? I've learned to depend

    on your voice of information.

    You reveal the harshness of the world--

    the brutal violence

    with which sophomoric humans govern their talents.

    Then you shelter me in the dark.

    Can I give you up? Could romance

    be left to pages I've ignored for you?

    Sleeping with you, I've almost forgotten

    (perhaps I have)

    how to make and take love.

    Could I let you go? I've grown used to you

    and I cannot fathom the depths

    of breathing beyond your choking embrace.

    An addict can see the possibility

    of ardor for the enemy,

    but the vision to loathe your lover

    requires grace--

    sometimes intercession and hunger.

    I know you need me, if only a little.

    But I think I'm ready for your death.

    You will not starve without me,

    but may be undernourished. That's your choice.

    We have lived on hamburgers and fries--

    chips, when things got low--

    but I must allow myself primer cuts

    and bread that needs no dressing.

    You have kept me

    in a hazy stupor.

    Now I'm looking for a clean, pure vintage;

    I drink a toast to peace and freedom

    bought with blood, but not my soul.

    I love you. I hate you.

    I wish it all was over.

    I may never be at rest

    until one of us sleeps under clover.

    Slam the door when you go

    When you go, slam the door

    so I'll be sure you've left me

    lying here in the barely dawn-lit room,

    your shadow passing by the window.

    Don't step lightly over the threshold,

    but stomp confidently.

    Marching is not an angry sound,

    just the certain noise of going.

    I'll never push you out

    but try to let you go.

    I'll try not to hold you in,

    but I can't promise

    when you're gone for good

    that I won't clutch the air

    where you once stood laughing.

    I'll be desperately seeking

    the punchline, beating my breast,

    angry that I can't control

    your going, loudly or softly

    (please leave with a shout!)

    out that hard, painful door.

    Pinned

    I dream my legs are pinned

    by my

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