April 2013

Submission Process

Writing to you at this late hour,
Bent down on my knee, holding
Out these rusty missives from

The strewn junkyard of my all
too scrawny screwed up heart,
I see your blade held high up

over my head. I know how it
moves through the air with a
swoosh. I feel as if I’ve come

into a room filled with albino
rodents, squirrels the most,
maybe a few shy guinea pigs.

None have a clue my secret
name is Romeo and I don’t
know the how of any behavior

I throw my thin white sheets
of poems and stories into the
high windy blank, hoping

to remind all moving creatures
of oranges, of javalina forests,
of dead rusted pump jacks,

of red leaves born of soil and
the soiled cold breathings and
beatings of the human heart

—Chuck Taylor

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