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Poetry By David Duchovny


Cliche Juice
By David Duchovny

Home is where the heart is and my heart is
out traveling. Up into the wild blue yonder,
wingless, prayerful that this miracle of flight
will not end, just yet.
Also at home, with you, on the ground
wherever you might be at the moment, grounded
like a highschooler, like a wire, a bird and a wire,
feet on the ground and my heart in my throat now, now
in my feet, lawfully descending with gravity
to the lower, lowest, most sought after
most beautifully bound, home.
Aspirations involve reputations. We reach
for stars wondering what we are.
But my reason has been found
by finding you and looking down. And it is thre.
not in the stars of fantisized worlds, fifth
dinemsions, sixth senses, holy parallel potentates of
potentates-that my feet will trace
their slow as history itself dance:
a walking callligraphy so subtle that it will take 40 years
and more and a view from above
with an impersonal remove and lofty attachment I hope
to barely fall at that mythical two-backed beast:itenerant stasis;
like the one I enjoy up here in the well attended air,
to read the cursive strokes of my aggregate footsteps,
like some fairy take dissolve, "Once upon a time" or twice
written on our little page of earth, ground.
wherever our home may be
will be
wherever we happen
to be.

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