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Can’t Speak Yet
Extending the color of sunshine,
He touches the blue shadow of the sky.
The sharp tip of pregnancy
Seduces
A flipped jaw.
Existence drifts completely the soul,
Frothing an ape dream.
Carousing.
The subconscious warps the other side of the face.
Cruelty crowds passion into a corner,
Rams the body as the flame rises.
A short nerve
Softens the water.
Calamity ridicules:
Let’s pierce to pieces the illusion!
Appearance bares its back whispering.
A hand not black enough for the heart of night.
Cannot speak now.
Striving for meaning at the end,
In a cattle state,
Stretched out the wet eye...
Sept 12, 2002
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Mien
Dang |
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Mien Dang was born
in Da Nang in 1974, came to the US in 1989, and now
lives in Florida, where she works as a manicurist.
She has been partially deaf since the age of 13.
Mien Dang has studied meditation with the Burmese
monk Sayadaw U Silananda and the Vietnamese monk
Sayadaw U Khippa. Her poems can be seen regularly in
various Vietnamese print and web journals. English
translations of her work have appeared in
xconnect. |
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Linh
Dinh |
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Linh Dinh is
the author of two collections of stories, Fake House
(Seven Stories Press 2000) and Blood and Soap (Seven
Stories Press 2004), and two books of poems, All Around
What Empties Out (Tinfish 2003) and American Tatts
(Chax 2005). His work has been anthologized in Best
American Poetry 2000, Best American Poetry 2004
and Great American Prose Poems from Poe to the Present,
among other places. He is also the editor of the anthologies
Night, Again: Contemporary Fiction from Vietnam
(Seven Stories Press 1996) and Three Vietnamese Poets
(Tinfish 2001). |
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