<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma">MAN O’WAR</span></p>

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text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma"> </span></p>

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text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma"> </span></p>

<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma">Don’t see me, don’t hold
me.  Only remind me of past thievery, of a lack less biting. The neat
growing stack of unspeakable things: Tiny lips, tissue tricked, numb-limbed
spectery.  The exact translucence of slitted eyes and fists.  Oily
sluices of blood bear us into braced airways, a house without a door.
 Next to her on the blanket (spreading stain etc.), a surly cobbled
heart.  </span></p>

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text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma"> </span></p>

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text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma"> </span></p>

<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma"> </span></p>

<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma">PILOT</span></p>

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text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma"> </span></p>

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text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma"> </span></p>

<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma">Everywhere he goes, John
the Baptist scans compulsively for places he might sleep if he were
homeless.   He marks street names and landmarks in a notebook. 
Water towers appeal to him especially.   He is often mistaken for
Kris Kristofferson and middle-aged women in beg him to sing “Jesus Was a
Capricorn.”  John patiently explains to them that actually, Jesus was a
Pisces.  They walk away whispering cruelly, elbows and wrists scraping
together.   When he is particularly distraught he steals cats
from porches.  He returns them moments later, overcome with dander and
self-loathing, eyes streaming.  He vanishes glumly before the
police.  It is a lonely existence but he feels satisfied. </span></p>

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text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma"> </span></p>

<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;
text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma"> </span></p>

<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none"><span style="font-family:Tahoma"><b>S.M.
Fattig </b></span><span style="font-family:Tahoma">is currently living in
Nebraska and pursuing her MA in Early Childhood Education.  Her work has
appeared in <i>Octopus Magazine</i></span><span style="font-family:Tahoma">, <i>Ink
Node</i></span><span style="font-family:Tahoma">, and <i>MARY Magazine</i></span><span style="font-family:Tahoma">.  In addition to poetry, she is currently at
work on textile projects involving found fabrics.</span></p>




<br>-- <br>RealPoetik<br><a href="http://www.realpoetik.org">www.realpoetik.org</a><br>