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Ron. Lavalette's Writings

Poem
Feb.11.2009
MiPo (New England Issue)
Bernie had a hole in his belly as big as your head for a minute and Carole Anne had the sweetest lips the longest legs and the driest thirst for Cuervo as she slipped into darkness like Bernie forever but slower I'm gonna be lonely as hell today horny as hell tonight
Poem
Feb.11.2009
MiPo (New England Issue)
Hungry as a jungle cat andloopy as a Chianti loonthe beanman and the wishy ladycome walking.The beanman's convincedthe librarian's out to get himbut the wishy lady says noit's just the moooooonmaking tiiiiiides inside his head. All the same, though,in the back of her mindthe wishy lady knows it’s true:you can never trust the librarian.
Poem
Feb.11.2009
The Comstock Review (Print)
Fallen Away I don’t know when it happened;I let it all fall away. I let it fall on the long drive to work in the morningin the sunlight, let it fall crossing ridge after jaded ridge, fallwith the glimpse of an unlikely hawk or a capture of crows, or the stackingof cordwood, the season’s final frost, fog on the hillside, or the flutterof a yellow kite in a...
Poem
Feb.11.2009
The Country Mouse (Online, defunct)
Thoreau Before Dawn Four feels odd, I suppose,except to those who rise at fiveor, as a rule, at half-past five. Most of us must toil and strive;do not have the life we choseso long ago, in which we’d doze, in which we’d trust in God at leastto toss a piece of daily breadour way, by which we’re barely fed. But long and long before we’re dead,we’ll know the nature...
Poem
Feb.11.2009
The Country Mouse (Online, defunct)
Looking In Fully banqueted,the nicotine outcastscavenges cigarettes poolsidewhile dregs of the partysip Tanquerays with tonicand linger over cheesecake. Nothing is as blue as the pool.The night, narcotic, welcoming,lengthens; spreads itself outbehind a buttery August moon. In the morning, huddledover coffee, everyone isblown dry by sunriseand smells like almonds.
Poem
Feb.11.2009
Crescent Moon Journal (2nd Place, Winter Poems Contest)
Outside for obligatory photographs: ubiquitous head-shot, profile, three-quarter profile, bust. I stand between the battered, rusty plow, lost in a stand of spruce, and the house’s winter windows, nearly buried by blizzard. I squint and will be squinting forever, standing, frozen by the shutters. When I see myself, inside, later, at first only pixels, then paper...
Poem
Feb.11.2009
Anthology Of New England Writers (#20) (Editors' Choice)
Table For One I never heard anyone shout so loudso softly. Barely a tabletop away I couldn’t hear a word she said but I could see him sitting as she spoke,could see his hands move from his lapto a clasp, almost as if in prayerbefore him, between them; could seehis face, and read the awful truth:that she’d said it all before, a million times or more, and said it...
Poem
Feb.11.2009
EDGZ (#13)
WHERE TO GO It doesn’t really matter, does it,once you’ve seen the Mall Of Americathe abandoned tennis courtwhere Robert Frost learned to play,no doubt enjoying the long volleyand scowling at any opponentselfish enough to serve up an ace;once you’ve walked down Elm Streetin someone else’s home townand seen that Elm Street looks like every other Elm Street, every...