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Poems by Gabriel Lundeen


"Love is all in the spring in your step,"
The thief whispered as he sacked
My apartment in the night
With a young son beside him

"It is love that makes us holy"
The thief whispered to the boy
As he unplugged the telephone and threw it in a bag.
He unplugged my coffee pot next,
Which I could not believe he was taking

As the boy emptied a jewelry box
His father told him in a windy voice
"When you have nothing else to call upon
Talk of the beauty of love."

I watched from the bathroom
As they emptied my kitchen of food,
Forgetting to take the coffee on the counter.
As they slipped out the window
he handed
The boy a strawberry and said
"I forgot what the word
'strawberry' meant until I
tasted one again."


Listening for he crystalline orgasm
Where the frail weave manifested,
He heard an original sound
Spanning the history of the ear

between nose and scent
between eye and illumination
between tooth and grinding
between ear and faint murmur
between fingertip and nerve

from invasion to conquest
from egg to the grave
from overflow to the drain
from mother's womb to table
from naked flesh to sludge

from beginning to climax and back to beginning again


All you have to do
is ask of me, child,
and my sky will pause

All I need to hear
is the sound of your voice, child
and I will take it as a signal

All the volunteers are gone.
I am the sole purveyor
of your glory left.

I have done this under
all their noises, child,
and the only ones who mattered
were the only ones who knew


You will pick your dream
Up off the shelf and
Begin reading, until
You hear my voice

The traceless fingerprint
Of the completion of a memory
And you will do your best
To embrace your poise

And every word we spoke
On the subject of each other
Will remind us true creation
Does not autograph its work


The poet folded his arms,
Hugging himself. He posed
As the Blue Boy for us,
Then went home and made
Love to himself under a
Pregnant comforter. We
Are in his dreams every
Night. It is like being
Made love to by a bomb.

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Biographical sketch: I am 22 years old, bitten with the urge to put pen to paper at a very young age. The reason to
write for me is not an aspiration but a coping mechanism, a grasp at sanity.

Gabriel Lundeen recommends:

Stranger Music by Leonard Cohen
Reason: An anthology of all his best works. A book you can crack open at any time and find a poem either ridiculously morose or infinitely wise.

Recommendations for writers:

Simply write. Reading other works is important, just as it is important for any craftsman to see the work of his peers. Writing is like anything else, really. That is the best way to think of it.


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