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You Know This
by Michael Ladanyi
i hear a crack from everything broken
and raw behind your eyes. you seem
blended and well meaning like the
yellow leaves on damp ground around
you, lying like handfuls of flat, dead
hair. the cloud-scalpel sky on your slim
shoulders, is like honey the bitter
copper-gold of no whispered to a lover.
traceable currents of caramel august
morning spill like red wine on glass,
ashes rolling off a bare thigh, slow
blood on open lips. i love you, i say,
my feet darting like eyes of a bad
liar. i hear yours and long to crush
the puzzled air between us that is
pressed flat like breath before a tear;
you know this and smile, the shorter
length of a dancing day on your mouth.
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Copyright © 2003 by Michael Ladanyi.
This was originally published in the October print issues of two of Skyline Publications four print magazines, A Hudson View and Skyline Literary Magazine, Copyright (C) Oct. 2002.
Michael Ladanyi lives in the foothills of the North Georgia Mountains with his wife and two daughters. He is an editor with Rustlings of the Wind and maintains a large poet/writer resource site at: http://www.geocities.com/poet662002/ His poetry has appeared over fifty times during the last year in print and online magazines and journals in the U.S., U.K., Greece, India and Australia, among them, Snow Monkey, Joey and the Black Boots, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Concrete Wolf, Promise, Skyline Literary Magazine, Red Booth Review, Poetry Greece, The Taj Mahal Review, PoetryRepairShop, ken*again, A Hudson View, Free Zone Quarterly, and The Circle, among others.
He has won several Editors Choice and Poet of the Month Awards from Skyline Literary Magazine and Poetic Reflections. He has recently written with, and is seeking publication of, poetry co-written with the novelist/poet Robert Edward Levin.
Michael has been published as a guest poet recently with Poetry In A Cup and The Muses Student. His work is forthcoming in several magazines. He has this to say about the poetry of image vs. the poetry of its words. "Words are merely confused child wishes led to paper and stacked in large and small piles of ordered discontinuance, though we would be lost, as poets, without image. If there were no words, image alone would suffice to teach us to write again."
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