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Jordan Stempleman

A Piece of That


The cold air is like nothing

but the cold thing left outside with my junk

mail. The sun so permanent

it can go away, in sleeves, in worn out

sleeves, yet, what year is it this great?

I for one am concerned to suggest

Florida to someone these days.

My coldblooded geese as orderly as what

my eyes can see but talk to—nutty

and doubtful—man, I’m going to be late,

divorced, just an empty village

and the cloudfilled sky before I settle down

and rescue myself from what not of. And flat rocks,

I’m grumpy. And hardboiled eggs,

what I’m feeling is along humanity with the almost now

breathing pushing breeze.






Getting Ready


I’m deep into something boring

like a pair of shoes just sitting there

unaware of what they’ve got, while

if it was one missing shoe, the world could go on

choosing sides about brains or sucking

crackers while sitting on the edge of the bed.

Perhaps this tiny event that I’m not

referring to is holy. Paper holy.

Paper go one day holy again.

But what I’m living with is never

this serious. There’s a straight-looking man

in a public park, shaving in the water

fountain, so I make sense of the dogs

who do nothing all day but go along

with their aspirations. I fight against this huge old park

tree, deciding whether to be lax today, hold off for later

for say, enormously concerned.

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