Professional Documents
Culture Documents
by
David Deubelbeiss
“My barn having burnt down
I could now see the moon.”
- Basho
ISBN:
LCCN:
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expunge ourselves from creating the
“other” and a banality that knows no limits.
I’m not convinced but I remain filled with
enduring faith, for faith endures all.
LINKS
My Blog: http://ddeubel.edublogs.org
MyPersonalPage::http://eflclassroom.com/david
Email: ddeubel@gmail.com
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Acknowledgements:
Thanks to:
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Food For Thought
Uncle Jacob
forty years kneading dough
after the war,
told me he had found only
two ways of making bread;
the slow bake of philosophy
the luxury of the rich or high minded,
for the rest, the quick snatch of wonder
between the long steady strokes
of the whip.
Then sternly,
his strong hand on my shoulder
He said,
"Son, always be
on the other end of the whip,
for there they eat not bread but cake.
Living is an affair
for those who turn on the ovens.
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My Love Can Perform Miracles
I swear,
my love could silence
the hum of this hornet's next
with one sure swat
of her hallow hand.
I swear,
she could.
I have seen her do much more.
My world stops in her gaze.
The fire behind her eyes melting my chains.
My world hops to her ways.
I swear,
my love could break
the heart of mankind
with one simple smack
of her red, loaded lips.
She could
thought she never would
such are the miracles
my love can perform.
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Love in the Age of Reason
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Esoteric Erotica
I study
your pendulous breasts
two suns buoyant
pointing to fertile orb below.
I enter
through vallied loins
both phallus and heart
magnetized by sensual expectancy.
I leave
through tangled limbs
quiet in relief
washed by the breath of life.
I study
your twisted reclining mass
wondering if,
Joseph Mengele would see the same.
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Let’s Clean House
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Don’t talk to me about love.
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Thanksgiving Day
I remember well
those bright dead days of autumn,
how my brother, the great white hunter
crushed the wee head of the partridge
he had winged.
Crushed it slow and rythmically
with the heel of his heavy boot.
I remember
how my grandpa, at the dinner table
sucked and gummed his turkey
with intense joy and abandon.
The juices edging out the sides
of his eager, hungering mouth.
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I remember well
those cool receding days of autumn.
I remember so I give my thanks.
My thanks not a sacrifice
to a glaring Moloch
but only,
thanks that I am a man
and not anything else.
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Poetry 101
She said it was
stupid meaningless empty
this poem.
That it did nothing for her —
no thing depends upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water.
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But I could not,
the farmer in my green soul
knowing
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God, Power and the Gun
God must have made the gun
that strong, heaven sending death stick.
I cannot see man, weak man
making such a perfect, infallible beast.
Sticks, stones, knives and rope
these are different,
they are not anonymous like a gun or god.
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Somewhere inbetween
lies the truth
You said you’d never lie again.
But as you said it,
You were lying,
like the shadows
that settle across our bed
when sun descends.
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On the death of Milt Acorn
Milt,
I never knew yah
but I can see
how a poem threw yah
from heart to mountain high.
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A Literary Autopsy
“Now, you all have the
vitals, Josef K., Male,
40, Eastern European.
Middle child, no de-
pendents, never
married. Profession:
insurance advocate.”
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“Then, there’s the nose. Typical mensch.
Built to oxygenate the brain. Solomon’s
sniffing snozze. Almost artificial, inhuman,
primitive, as if it were bought from the go-
lem’s maker along with the clown’s feet –
for a show, to beckon some hidden force,
then unceremoniously stuck on. A nose
that knows.”
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“So, in a word, the cause of death: hunger.”
Perhaps he never found the food he liked –
a forerunner of a more modern and en-
demic (though less fatal) disease known as
nausea, a sickness of those who never seem
to arrive at port. Which brings us to the
next cadaver, a very interesting case. A
young man found on a train from Bouville
in the Gare de Montmartre in Paris. DOA,
dead on arrival. No apparent trauma
though …..”
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From Where?
From where do all the guns come?
Do they fall from the sky
magically
as the peasants beat the ground
with sticks in sympathy?
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Do they grow in the spring
on hillsides like strawberries,
picked green
soon to turn red?
I say,
instruments of destruction are a luxury ---
of those with little better to do.
They grow from the fat of the earth,
the minds
of those that don’t till it
of those least likely to taste the red wrath
of man’s reach for perfection.
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Alone but Amidst
I am a wanderer
with feet held firm
among life’s thorns,
never reaching my rose.
I am the individual
clothed by others worries,
dressed with others vices,
captive among sensual criminals.
I am the forgotten
melted into humanities’ heart,
the desires upon which I slipped.
I am the forlorn
torn by life’s inequitous lair.
Imprisoned by my sorid despair.
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I am the silence
before the dawn of language,
speaking for those
tied by sound.
I am the nothing
giving birth to something.
I am the last
the protest amongst pride
the keeper of the world’s sanity,
the guardian of its vanity.
I am Elijah, I am hope.
May one day I rest.
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I ask
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On Privacy
When they lop off my head
erase every god damned word
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